.^  U  i 


■>.T 


Works 


■^aiAwce^     .p.      I 


1-' '    i  I  n  ker» 


^9M    . 


PREFACE  ^AlA-' 

In  making  the  following  selections,  I  have  tried  to  avoid 
the  appearance  of  such  a  volume  as  used  to  be  entitled 
Elegant  Extracts.  Wherever  practicable,  entire  chapters  or 
lectures  are  given,  or  at  least  passages  of  sufficient  length 
to  insure  a  correct  notion  of  the  general  complexion  of  Rus- 
kin's  work.  The  text  is  in  all  cases  that  of  the  first  editions, 
unless  these  were  later  revised  by  Ruskin  himself.  The 
original  spelling  and  punctuation  are  preserved,  but  a  few 
minor  changes  have  been  made  for  the  sake  of  uniformity 
among  the  various  extracts.  For  similar  reasons,  Ruskin's 
numbering  of  paragraphs  is  dispensed  with. 

I  have  aimed  not  to  multiply  notes.  Practically  all  Rus- 
kin's own  annotation  is  given,  with  the  exception  of  one  or 
two  very  long  and  somewhat  irrelevant  notes  from  Stones 
of  Venice.  It  has  not  been  deemed  necessary  to  give  the 
dates  of  every  painter  or  to  explain  every  geographical  refer- 
ence. On  the  other  hand,  the  sources  of  most  of  the  quota- 
tions are  indicated.  In  the  preparation  of  these  notes,  the 
magnificent  library  edition  of  Messrs.  Cook  and  Wedder- 
burn  has  inevitably  been  of  considerable  assistance;  but  all 
their  references  have  been  verified,  many  errors  have  been 
corrected,  and  much  has  of  course  been  added. 

In  closing  I  wish  to  express  my  obligation  to  my  former 
colleague.  Dr.  Lucius  H.  Holt,  without  whose  assistance 
this  volume  would  never  have  appeared.  He  wrote  a  num- 
ber of  the  notes,  including  the  short  prefaces  to  the  various 
selections,  and  prepared  the  manuscript  for  the  printer. 

C.  B.  T- 

September,  1908. 


^■73j  i.G 


■*^ 


<7 


,/^ 


CONTENTS 

Introduction vii 

The  Life  of  Ruskin vii 

The  Unity  of  Ruskiu's  Writings      ....  xi 

^      Ruskin's  Style xiv 

Selections  from  Modern  Painters 

The  Earth-Veil 2 

The  Mountjiin  Glory        ......  8 

Sunrise  on  the  Alps     .......  17 

The  Grand  Style 20 

Of  Realization 39 

Of  the  Novelty  of  Landscape  .       ' .         .         .         .  48 

Ol  the  Pathetic  Fallacy 58 

Of  Classical  Landscape 76 

Of  Modern  Lands.capfi- 105 

The  Two  Boyhoods 120 

Selections  from  The  Stones  of  Venice 

The  Throne 138 

St.  Mark's 150 

Characteristics  of  Gothic  Architecture     .         .         .  16i 

Selections  from  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture 

/  The  Lamp  of  Memory          ......  20G 

l^    The  Lamp  of  Obedience  ......  22) 

Selections  from  Lectures  on  Art 

Inangiiral 233 

The  Relation  of  Art  to  Morals 248 

*,    The  Relation  of  Art  to  Use 257 


J: 


vi  CONTENTS 

Art  and  History ,        .  269 

Traffic 277 

Life  and  its  Arts 305 

Bibliographical  Note 329 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

John  Ruskin  in  1857 Frontispiece 

Turner's  Fighting  Temeraire  ■  .        .        .        126 

Church  of  St.  Mark,  Venice 150 

St.  Mark's  :  Central  Arch  of  Faqade   .        .        .        162 


INTRODUCTION 

It  is  distinctive  of  the  nineteenth  century  that  in  its  pas- 
sion for  criticising  everything  in  heaven  and  earth  it  by  no 
means  spared  to  criticise  itself.    Alike  in  Carlyle's  fulmi- 
iiations  against  its  insincerity,  in  Arnold's  nice  ridicule  of 
Philistinism,   and  in  Ruskin's  repudiation  of  everything 
mo^rn,   we  detect  that  fine  dissatisfaction  with  the  age 
whMi  is  perhaps  only  proof  of  its  idealistic  trend.     For 
the^various  ills  of  society,  each  of  these  men  had  his  pan- 
acea.  What  Carlyle  had  found  in  hero-worship  and  Arnold 
in  Hellenic  culture,  Ruskin  sought  in  the  study  of  art;  and 
it  is  of  the   last  importance  to  remember  that 
throughout  his  work   he   regarded  himself  not   fucting 
merely  as  a  writer  on  painting  or  buildings  or   tendencies 
myths  or  landscape,  but  as  the  appointed  critic 
of  the  age.    For  there  existed  in  him,  side  by  side  with  his''   i 
consuming   love  of__the  beautiful,  a  rigorous   Puritanism_.  / 
which  w^as  constantly  correcting  any  tendency  toward  a  mere 
cult  of  the  aesthetic.    It  is  with  the  interaction  of  these  two 
forces  that  any  study  of  the  life  and  writings   of  Ruskin 
should  be  primarily  concerned. 


THE   LIFE   OF   RUSKIN 

It  is  easy  to  trace  in  the  life  of  Ruskin  these  two  forces 
tending  respectively  toward  the  love  of  beauty  and  toward 
the  contempt  of  mere  beauty.  They  are,  indeed,  present 
from  the  beginning.  He  inherited  from  his  Scotch  parents 
that  upright  fearlessness  which  has  always  char- 
acterized the  race.  His  stern  mother  "  devoted 
him  to  God  before  he  was  born,-'  ^  and  she  guarded  her 
gift  with  unremitting  but  perhaps  misguided  caution.    The 

1  PrcBterita.  He  was  born  February  8,  1819. 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

child  was  early  taught  to  find  most  of  his  entertainment 
■within  himself,  and  when  he  did  not,  he  was  whipped.  He 
had  no  playmates  and  few  toys.  His  chief  story-book  was 
the  Bible,  which  he  read  many  times  from  cover  to  cover 
at  his  mother's  knee.  His  father,  the  "perfectly  honest 
wine-merchant,"  seems  to  have  been  the  one  to  foster  the 
boy's  aesthetic  sense;  he  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  aloud 
to  his  little  family,  and  his  son's  apparently  genuine  ap- 
preciation of  Scott,  Pope,  and  Homer  dates  from  the  in- 
credibly early  age  of  five.  It  was  his  father,  also,  to  whom 
he  owed  his  early  acquaintance  with  the  finest  landscape, 
for  the  boy  was  his  companion  in  yearly  business  trips  aljout 
Britain,  and  later  visited,  in  his  parents'  company,  Belgium, 
western  Germany,  and  the  Alps. 

All  this  of  course  developed  the  child's  precocity.  He 
was  early  suffered  and  even  encouraged  to  compose  verses  ;  ^ 
by  ten  he  had  written  a  play,  which  has  unfortunately  been 
preserved.  The  hot-house  rearing  which  his  parents  be- 
lieved in,  and  his  facility  in  teaching  himself,  tended  to 
make  a  regular  course  of  schooling  a  mere  annoyance  ;  such 
Early  schooling  as  he  had  did  not  begin  till  he  was 

education,  fifteen,  and  lasted  less  than  two  years,  and  was 
broken  by  illness.  But  the  chief  effect  of  the  sheltered 
life  and  advanced  education  to  which  he  was  subjected  was 
to  endow  him  with  depth  at  the  expense  of  breadth,  and  to 
deprive  him  of  a  possibly  vulgar,  but  certainly  healthy, 
contact  with  his  kind,  which,  one  must  believe,  would  have 
checked  a  certain  disposition  in  him  to  egotism,  sentimen- 
tality, and  dogmatic  vehemence.  "The  bridle  and  blinkers 
were  never  taken  off  me,"  he  writes.^ 

At  Oxford  —  whither  his  cautions  mother  pursued  him 
—  Kuskin  seems  to  have  been  impressed  in  no  very  es- 
Student  sential  manner  by  curriculum  or  college  mates. 
at  Oxford.  "With  learning  ^;e?'  se  he  was  always  dissatisfied 
and  never  had  much  to  do ;  his  course  was  distinguished 
not  so  much  by  erudition  as  by  culture.  He  easily  won  the 

^  Ruskin  himself  quotes  a  not  very  brilliant  specimen  in  Modern 
Painters,  III,  in  "  Moral  of  Landscape." 
2  Prceierita,  §  53. 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

Kewdigate  prize  in  poetry  ;  his  rooms  in  Christ  Church 
were  hung  with  excellent  examples  of  Turner's  landscapes, 
—  the  gift  of  his  art-loving  father,  —  of  which  he  had  been 
an  intimate  student  ever  since  the  age  of  thirteen.  But  his 
course  was  interrupted  by  an  illness,  apparently  of  a  tuber- 
culous nature,  which  necessitated  total  relaxation  and  vari- 
ous trips  in  Italy  and  Switzerland,  where  he  Traveling 
seems  to  have  been  healed  by  walking  among  in  Europe.  ^ 
his  beloved  Alps.  For  many  years  thereafter  he  passed 
months  of  his  time  in  these  two  countries,  accompanied  some- 
times by  his  parents  and  sometimes  rather  luxuriously,  it 
seems,  by  valet  and  guide. 

Meanwhile  he  had  commenced  his  career  as  author  with 
the  first  volume  of  Modern  Painters,  begun,   the  world 
knows,  as  a  short  defense  of  Turner,  originally    career  as 
intended   for    nothing    more    than    a    magazine   an  author 
article.    But  the  role  of  art-critic  and   law-giver     ®^  ^^" 
pleased  the  youth, — he  was  only   twenty-four  when  the 
volume  appeared,  —  and  having  no  desire   to  realize   the 
ambition  of  his  parents  and  become  a  bishop,  and  even  less 
to  duplicate  his  father's  career  as  vintner,  he  gladly  seized 
the  opportunity  thus  offered  him  to  develop  his  aesthetic 
vein  and  to  redeem  the  public  mind  from  its  vulgar  apathy 
thereby.    He  continued  his  work  on  Modern  Painters,  with  -- 
some  intermissions,  for  eighteen  years,  and  supplemented  it 
with  the  equally  famous  Seven  Laonps  of  Ai^chitecture  in 
1849,  and  The  Stoiies  of  Venice  in  1853. 

This  life  of  zealous  work  and  brilliant  recognition  was  \ 
interrupted  in  1848  by  Ruskin's  amazing  marriage  to  Miss 
Euphemia  Gray,   a  union  into  which  he   entered   at  the 
desire  of  his  parents  with  a  docility  as   stupid  as  it  was 
stupendous.    Five    years    later    the    couple   were    quietly 
divorced,  that  Mrs.   Ruskin  might  marry  Mil-    Domestic 
lais.    All  the  author's  biographers  maintain  an   troubles. 
indiscreet  reserve  in  discussing  the  affair,  but  there  can  be 
no  concealment  of  the  fact  that  its  effect  upon  Ruskin  was 
profound  in  its  depression.    Experiences  like  this  and  his 
later  sad  passion  for  Miss  La  Touche  at  once  presage  and 
indicate  his  mental  disorder,  and  no  doubt  had  their  share 


X  INTRODUCTION 

^a  large  one  —  in  causing  Kuskin's  dissatisfaction  with 

'.-ivery thing,  and  ahove  all  with  his  own  life  and  work.     Be 

/  ihis  as  it  may,  it  is  at  tliis  time  in  the  life  of  liuskin  that 

j   we  must  begin  to  reckon  with  the  decline  of  his  sestlietic 

I '  md  the  rise  of  his  ethical  impulse  ;  his  interest  passes  from 

'  '  irt  to  conduct.   It  is  also  the  period  in  which  he  began  his 

•jareer  as  lecturer,  his  chief  interest  being  the  social  life  of 

his  age. 

By   1860,  he  was    publishing   the   papers   on    political 

economy,  later  called    Unto  this    Lost,  which  roused    so 

Ruskln'3       great  a  storm  of  protest  when  they  appeared  in 

increasing     t]^e  Comhill  Magazine  that  their  publication  had 

interest  in 

social  ques-    to  be  suspended.  The  attitude  of  the  public  toAvard 

tions.  such  works  as  these,  —  its  alternate  excitement 

and   apathy,  —  the  death  of   his   parents,  combined  with 

the  distressing   events   mentioned    above,    darkened   Rus- 

kin's  life  and  spoiled  his  interest  in  everything  that  did  not 

tend  to  make  the  national  life  more  thoughtfully  solemn. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  now  .  .  .  the  tlioughts  of  the  true 
nature  of  our  life,  and  of  its  powers  and  responsibilities  should 
present  themselves  with  absolute  sadness  and  sternness."  ^ 

His  lectures  as  Slade  Professor  of  Art  at  Oxford,  a  post 
which  he  held  at  various  times  from  1870  to  1883,  failed 
to  re-establish  his  undistracted  interest  in  things  beautiful. 
y^    The   complete  triumph  of    the  reformer  over  the  art- 
critic  is  marked  by  Fors  Clavigera,  a  series  of  letters  to 
workingmen,  begun  New  Year's  Day,  1871,  in  which  it 
was  proposed  to  establish  a  model  colony  of  peasants,  whose 
lives  should    be    made   simple,   honest,   happy,   and  even 
cultured,  by  a  return  to  more  primitive  methods  of  tilling 
the  soil  and  of  making  useful  and  beautiful  objects.    The 
Guild  of  St.  George,  established  to  "  slay  the  dragon  of 
industrialism,"  to  dispose  of  machinery,  slums,  and  dis- 
content,  consumed  a  large  part  of  Ruskin's  time 
the  reform-    and  money.   He  had  inherited  a  fortune  of  ap- 
er  over  the     proximately  a  million  dollars,  and  he  now  began 
to  dispose  of  it  in  various  charitable  scliemes,  — 
establishing  tea-shops,  supporting  young  painters,  planning 
1  The  Mystery  of  Life. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

model  tenements,  but,  above  all,  in  elaborating  his  ideas  for 
the  Guild.  The  result  of  it  all  —  whatever  particular  reforms 
were  effected  or  manual  industries  established  —  was,  to 
Ruskin's  view,  failure,  and  his  mind,  weakening  under  tlie 
strain  of  its  profound  disappointments,  at  last  crashed  in 
ruin. 

It  is  needless  to  follow  the  broken  author  through  the 
desolation  of  his  closing  years  to  his  death  in  1900.  Save 
for  his  charming  reminiscences,  Prceterita,  his  Death  in 
work  was  done ;  the  long  struggle  was  over,  the  19°°- 
struggle  of  one  man  to  reduce  the  complexities  of  a  national 
life  to  an  apostolic  simplicity,  to  make  it  beautiful  and 
good, 

Till  the  hig-h  God  behold  it  from  beyond, 
^  And  enter  it.  ^..■"' 

^  II 

THE   UNITY    OF   RUSKIN's   WRITINGS 

Ruskin  is  often  described  as  an  author  of  bewildering 
variety,  whose  mind  drifted  way wardly  from  topic  to  topic 
—  from  painting  to  political  economy,  from  ar-  Diversity 
chitecture  to  agriculture  —  with  a  license  as  of  his 
illogical  as  it  was  indiscriminating.  To  this  im-  ^^  ^^^' 
pression,  Ruskin  himself  sometimes  gave  currency.  He  was, 
for  illustration,  once  announced  to  lecture  on  crystallo- 
graphy, but,  as  we  are  informed  by  one  present,^  he  opened 
by  asserting  that  he  was  really  about  to  lecture  on  Cis- 
tercian architecture;  nor  did  it  greatly  matter  what  the 
title  was;  ''for,"  said  he,  "if  I  had  begun  to  speak  about 
Cistercian  abbeys,  I  should  have  been  sure  to  get  on  crys- 
tals presently ;  and  if  I  had  begun  upon  crystals,  I  should 
soon  have  drifted  into  architecture."  Those  who  conceive 
of  Ruskin  as  being  thus  a  kind  of  literary  Proteus  like  to 
point  to  the  year  1860,  that  of  the  publication  of  his  tracts 
on  economics,  as  witnessing  the  greatest  and  suddenest  of 

^  See  Harrison's  Life,  p.  111.  Cf.  the  opening  of  The  Mystery  of 
Life. 

\ 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

his  changes,  that  from  reforming  art  to  reforming  society ; 
and  it  is  true  that  this  year  all'ords  a  simple  dividing-line 
between  Kuskin's  earlier  work,  which  is  sufficiently  de- 
scribed by  the  three  titles.  Modern  Fainters,  TJte  Seven 
Lamps  of  Architecture^  and^T/ie  Stones  of  Venice,  and  his 
later  work,  chiefly  on  social  subjects  such  as  are  discussed 
in  Unto  litis  Last,  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  and  Fors 
Clavifjera.  And  yet  we  cannot  insist  too  often  on  the 
essential  unity  of  this  work,  for,  viewed  in  the  large,  it 

y  betrays  one  continuous  development.  The  seeds  of  Fors 
are  in  The  Stones  of  Venice. 

The  governing  idea  of  Ruskin's  first  published  work, 
Modern  Painters,  Volume  I,  was  a  moral  idea.  The  book 
was  dedicated  to  the  principle  that  that  art  is  greatest 
which  deals  with  the  greatest  number  of  greatest  ideas,  — 
those,  we  learn  presently,  which  reveal  divine  truth  ;  the 
office  of  the  painter,  we  are  told, Ms  the  same  as  that  of  the 
preacher,  for  "  the  duty  of  both  is  to  take  for  each  dis- 
course one  essential  truth."  As  if  recalling  this  argument 
that  the  painter  is  a  preacher,  Carlyle  described  TJie  Stones 
of  Venice  as  a  "  sermon  in  stones."  In  the  idea  that  all  art, 
■when  we  have  taken  due  account  of  technique  and  train- 

-ing,  springs  from  a  moral  character,  we  find  the  unifying 
principle  of  Ruskin's  strangely  diversified  work.  The  very 
title  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  with  its  chapters 
headed  ''Sacrifice,"  ''Obedience,"  etc.,  is  a  sufficient  illus- 

1  tration  of  Ruskin's  identification  of  moral  principles  Avith 
aesthetic  principles.  A  glance  at  the  following  pages  of 
this  book  will  show  how  Ruskin  is  for  ever  halting  him- 
self to  demand  the  moral  significance  of  some  fair  land- 
scape, gorgeous  painting,  heaven-aspiring  cathedral.  T 
"  The  Mountain  Glory,"  for  example,  he  refers  t^ 
idea  in  all  the  mountains  as  "kindly  in  simple  lessons  tc 
hisworks.  i^\^^  workman,"  and  inquires  later  at  what  times 
mankind  has  offered  worship  in  these  mountain  churches; 
of  the  English  cathedral  he  says,  "Weigh  the  influence  of 
those  dark  towers  on  all  who  have  passed  through  the 
lonely  square  at  their  feet  for  centuries  " ;  ^  of  St.  Mark's, 
1  Part  2,  sec.  1,  chap.  4.  2  See  p.  159. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

*'  And  what  effect  has  this  splendour  on  those  who  pass 
beneath  it  ?  "  —  and  it  will  be  noticed  on  referring  to  "  The 
Two  Boyhoods,"  that,  in  seekin^g  to  define  the  difference 
between  Giorgione  and  Turner,  the  author  instinctively  has 
recourse  to  distinguishing  the  religious  influences  exerted 
on  the  two  in  youth. 

Now  it  is  clear  that  a  student  of  the  relation  of  art  to 
life,  of  work  to  the  character  of  the  workman  and  of  his 
nation,  may,  and  in  fact  inevitably  must,  be  led  in  time  to 
attend  to  the  producer  rather  than  to  the  product,  to  the 
cause  rather  than  to  the  effect;  and  if  we  grant,  with  Ruskin, 
that  the  sources  of  art,  namely,  the  national  life,  are  de- 
filed, it  will  obviously  be  the  part,  not  only  of  humanity 
but  of  common  sense,  for  such  a  student  to  set  about  puri- 
fying the  social  life  of  the  nation.  Whether  the  underly- 
reformation  proposed  by  E-uskin  be  the  proper  ingideaa 
method  of  attack  is  not  the  question  we  are  "^"*1°^^- 
here  concerned  with  ;  our  only  object  at  present  being  to 
call  attention  to  the  fact  that  such  a  lecture  as  that  on 
''Traffic"  in  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive  is  the  logical  out- 
growth of  such  a  chapter  as  "  Ideas  of  Beauty  "  in  the 
first  volume  of  Modern  Painters.  Between  the  author  who 
wrote  in  1842,  of  the  necessity  of  revealing  new  truths 
in  painting,  "  This,  if  it  be  an  honest  work  of  art,  it  must 
have  done,  for  no  man  ever  yet  worked  honestly  without 
giving  some  such  help  to  his  race.  God  appoints  to  every 
one  of'  His  creatures  a  separate  mission,  and  if  they  dis- 
charge it  honourably  .  .  .  there  will  assuredly  come  of  it 
such  burning  as,  in  its  appointed  mode  and  measure,  shall 
shine  before  men,  and  be  of  service  constant  and  holy,"  ^ 
and  the  author  who  wrote,  "That  country  is  the  richest 
which  nourishes  the  greatest  number  of  noble  and  happy 
human  beings,"  ^  or,  "  The  beginning  of  art  is  in  getting 
our  country  clean,  and  our  people  beautiful,"  ^ —  between 
these  two,  I  say,  there  is  no  essential  difference.  They  are 
not  contradictory  but  consistent. 

Amidst  the  maze  of  subjects,  then,  which  Ruskin,  with 

1  Modern  Painters^  vol.  1,  part  2,  sec.  1,  chap.  7. 

2  Unto  This  Last.  8  See  p.  202. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

kaleidoscopic  siuldenness  and  variety,  brings  before  the 
astonished  gaze  of  his  readers,  let  them  confidently  liold 
this  guiding  clue.  They  will  find  that  Ruskin's  "facts" 
are  often  not  facts  at  all ;  they  will  discover  that  many  of 
Art  depend-  Luskin's  choicest  theories  have  been  dismissed 
entupon  to  the  limbo  of  exploded  hypotheses;  but  they 
an"na^-  ^^'^^^  ^^^'^  ^^"S  before  they  find  a  more  eloquent 
tionai  and  convincing  plea  for  the  proposition  that  all 

greatness,  g^.^r^t  art  reposes  upon  a  foundation  of  personal 
and  national  greatness.  Critics  of  Ruskin  will  show  you  that 
he  began  Modern  Painters  while  he  was  yet  ignorant  of  the 
classic  Italians  ;  that  he  wrote  The  Stones  of  Venice  without 
realizing  the  full  indebtedness  of  the  Venetian  to  the  Byzan- 
tine architecture  ;  that  he  proposed  to  unify  the  various 
religious  sects  although  he  had  no  knowledge  of  theology; 
that  he  attempted  a  reconstruction  of  society  though  he  had 
had  no  scientific  training  in  political  economy ;  but  in  all 
this  neglect  of  mere  fact  the  sympathetic  reader  will  dis- 
cover that  contempt  for  the  letter  of  the  law  which  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  nineteenth-century  prophet,  —  of  Carlyle, 
of  Arnold,  and  of  Emerson, —  and  which,  if  it  be  blindness, 
is  that  produced  by  an  excess  of  light. 


ni 

ruskin's  style 

Many  people  regard  the  style  of  Kuskin  as  his  chief 
claim  to  greatness.  If  the  time  ever  come  when  men  nc 
longer  study  him  for  sermons  in  stones,  they  will  never- 
Sensnons-  theless  turn  to  his  pages  to  enjoy  one  of  the 
ness  of  his  most  gorgeous  prose  styles  of  the  nineteenth 
^*^  ®"  century.   For  a  parallel  to  the  sensuous  beauties 

of  Ruskin's  essays  on  art,  one  turns  instinctively  to  poetryj 
and  of  all  the  poets  Ruskin  is  perhaps  likest  Keats.   Hisv 
sentences,    like   the    poet's,    are    thick-set    with    jeweled  ' 
phrases ;  they  are  full  of  subtle  harmonies  that  respond, 
like  a  Stradivarius,   to  the  player's  every   mood.    In    its 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

ornateriess  Ruskiii's  style  is  like  his  favorite  cathedral  of 
Aiiiieiis,  in  the  large  stately,  in  detail  exquisite,  profuse, 
and  not  without  a  touch  of  the  grotesque.  It  is  the  style 
of  an  artist. 

A  critical  fancy  may  even  discover  in  the  constructioi 
of  l]is  finest  descriptions  a  method  not  unlike  that  of  a 
painter  at  work  upon  his  canvas.  He  blocks  them  out  in 
large  masses,  then  sketches  and  colors  rapidly  for  general 
effects,  treating  detail  at  first  more  or  less  vaguely  and  col- 
lectively, but  passing  in  the  end  to  the  elaboration  of  detail 
in  the  concrete,  touching  the  whole  with  an  imaginative 
gleam  that  lends  a  momentary  semblance  of  life  to  the 
thing  described,  after  the  manner  of  the  "  pathetic  fallacy." 
Thus  it  is  in  the  famous  description  of  St.  Mark's  :^  we  are 
given  first  the  largest  general  impression,  the  Ruskin's 
"long,  low  pyramid  of  coloured  light,''  which  the  laethod of 
artist  proceeds  to  "  hollow  beneath  into  five  great  tion  in  de- 
vaulted  porches,"  whence  he  leads  the  eye  slowly  scription. 
upwards  amidst  a  mass  of  bewildering  detail  —  "a.  confusion 
of  delight"  —  from  which  there  slowly  emerge  those  con- 
crete details  with  which  the  author  particularly  wishes  to 
impress  us,  'Hlie  breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  blazing  in  their 
breadth  of  golden  strength  and  St.  Mark's  lion  lifted  on 
a  blue  field  covered  with  stars."  In  lesser  compass  we  are 
shown  the  environs  of  Venice,^  the  general  impression  of 
the  "long,  low,  sad-coloured  line,"  being  presently  broken 
by  the  enumeraMon  of  unanalyzed  detail,  "  tufted  irregu- 
larly with  brushwood  and  willows,"  and  passing  to  concrete 
detail  in  the  hills  of  Arqua,  "  a  dark  cluster  of  purple 
pyramids."  In  the  still  more  miniature  description  of  the 
original  site  of  Venice  ^  we  have  the  same  method : 

"The  black  desert  of  their  shore  lies  in  its  nakedness  beneath 
the  niii-bt,  pathless,  comfortless,  infirm,  lost  in  dark  languor  and 
fearful  silence,  except  where  the  salt  runlets  plash  into  the  tide- 
less  pools  and  the  sea-birds  flit  from  their  margins  with  a  ques- 
tioning cry." 

Equally  characteristic  of  the  painter  is  the  ever-present 
1  See  p.  162.  2  gee  p.  139.  ^  gee  p.  147. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

-  use  of  color.  It  is  interesting  merely  to  count  the  number 
Hlslov*  ^^^  variety  of  colors  used  in  the  descriptions.  It 
of  color.  ^vill  serve  at  least  to  call  the  reader's  attention 
to  Hie  felicitous  choice  of  words  used  in  describing  the 
opalescence  of  St.  Clark's  or  the  skillful  combination  of  the 
colors  characteristic  of  the  great  Venetians  in  such  a  sentence 
as,  *'  the  low  bronzed  gleaming  of  sea-rusted  armor  shot 
angrily  under  their  blood-red  mantle-folds"  *  —  a  glimpse 
of  a  Giorgione. 

He  is  even  more  attentive  to  the  ear  than  to  the  eye. 

—  He  loves  the  sentence  of  stately  rhythms  and  long-drawn 
harmonies,  and  he  omits  no  poetic  device  that  can  heighten 
the  charm  of  sound,  —  alliteration,  as  in  the  famous  de- 
scription of  the  streets  of  Venice, 

"  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  still  the  soft  moving  of  stainless 
waters  proudly  pure  ;  as  not  the  flower,  so  neither  the  thorn  nor 
the  thistle  could  grow  in  those  glancing  fields  "  ;  ^ 

the  balanced  close  for  some  long  period, 

"to  write  her  history  on  the  white  scrolls  of  the  sea-surges 
and  to  word  it  in  their  thunder,  and  to  gather  and  give  forth, 
in  the  world-wide  pulsation,  the  glory  of  the  West  and  of 
the  East,  from  the  burning  heart  of  her  Fortitude  and  Splen- 
dour " ;  3 

-.  and  the  tendency,  almost  a  mannerism,  to  add  to  the  music 
His  love  ^^  ^^^^  ^^^'^  rhythm,  the  deep  organ-notes  of  Bib- 
of  prose  lical  text  and  paraphrase.  But  if  we  wish  to  see 
rhytlim.  -j^^^^,  aptly  Ruskin's  style  responds  to  the  tone  of 
his  subject,  we  need  but  remark  the  rich  liquid  sentence 
descriptive  of  Giorgione's  home, 

"brightness  out  of  the  north  and  balm  from  the  south,  and  the 
stars  of  evening  and  morning  clear  in  the  limitless  light  of  arched 
heaven  and  circling  sea,"  * 

which  he  has  set  over  against  the  harsh  explosiveness  of 

"Near  the  south-west  corner  of  Covent  Garden,  a  square  brick 
pit  or  wall  is  formed  by  a  close-set  block  of  house  to  the  back 
windows  of  which  it  admits  a  few  rays  of  light —  " 

the  birthplace  of  Turner. 

1  See  p.  121.         2  See  p.  122.         ^  gee  p.  149.         *  See  p.  122. 


INTRODUCTION  xvii  il 

But  none  knew  better  than  Rnskin  that  a  style  so  stiff 

with  ornament  was  likely  to  produce  all  manner  of  faults. 

In  overloading  his  sentences  with  jewelry  he  frequently  - 

obscures  the  sense  ;  his  beauties  often  degenerate  into  mere 

prettiness ;  his  sweetness  cloys.  His  free  indulgence  of  the 

emotions,  often  at  the  expense  of  the  intellect,    Histoeauty 

leads  to  a  riotous  extravagance  of  superlative.    °L^*^l® 

^        .  ^  .         often  dis- 

But,  above  all,   his  richness  distracts  attention   tracts  from 

from  matter  to  manner.   In  the  case  of  an  author   the  thought. 

so  profoundly  in  earnest,  this  could  not  but  be  unfortunate  ; 

nothing  enraged  him  more  than  to  have  people  look  upon 

the  beauties  of  his  style  rather  than  ponder  the  substance 

of  his  book.  In  a  passage  of  complacent  self-scourging  he 

says  : 

"For  I  have  had  what,  in  many  respects,  I  boldly  call  the 
misfortune,  to  set  my  words  sometimes  prettily  together  ;  not 
without  a  foolish  vanity  in  the  poor  knack  that  I  had  of  doing 
so,  until  I  was  heavily  punishetl  for  this  pride  by  finding  that 
many  people  thought  of  the  words  only,  and  cared  nothing 
for  their  meaning.  Happily,  therefore,  the  power  of  using  such 
language  —  if  indeed  it  ever  were  mine  —  is  passing  away  from 
me;  and  whatever  I  am  now  able  to  say  at  all  1  find  myself 
forced  to  say  with  great  plainness."^ 

But  Ruskin's  decision  to  speak  with  ^'  great  plainness  "  by 
no  means  made  the  people  of  England  attend  to  what  he 
said  rather  than  the  way  he  said  it.   He  could  be,  and  in 
his  later  work  he  usually  was,  strong  and  clear ;  but  the 
old  picturesqueness  and  exuberance  of  ppssion  were  with  ^ 
him  still.   The  public  discovered  that  it  enjoyed  Ruskin's- 
denunciations  of  machinery  much  as  it  had  enjoyed   his 
descriptions  of  mountains,  and,  without  obviously  mending 
its   ways,   called    loudly   for   more.     Lecture-rooms    were 
crowded  and  editions  exhausted  by  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of   England,   whose  nerves  were   pleasantly  thrilled 
wath  a  gentle  surprise  on  being  told  that  they 
had  despised  literature,  art,  science,  nature,  and   gsque  ex- 
3ompassion,  and  that   what  they  thought  upon   travagance 
any  subject  was  ''a  matter  of  no  serious  impor- 
tance";  that  they  could  not  be  said  to  have  any  thoughts 

1   The  Mystery  of  Life. 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

at  all —  iiulocd,  no  right  to  think.'  The  fiercer  his  anath- 
emas, the  greater  the  api)laiise  ;  the  louder  he  shouted, 
tlie  better  he  pleased.  Let  him  split  the  ears  of  the  ground- 
lings, let  him  out-Herod  Herod,  —  the  judicious  might 
grieve,  hut  all  M'ould  he  excitedly  attentive.  Their  Jere- 
miah seemed  at  times  like  to  become  a  jester,  —  there  was 
a  suggestion  of  the  ludicrous  in  the  sudden  passage  from 
birds  to  Greek  coins,  to  mills,  to  Walter  Scott,  to  million- 
aire malefactors,  —  a  suggestion  of  acrobatic  tumbling  and 
somersault ;  but  he  always  got  a  hearing.  In  lecturing  to  the 
students  of  a  military  academy  he  had  the  pleasing  audacity 
to  begin : 

"  Young  soldiers,  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  many  of  you  came 
unwillingly  to-iiiglit,  and  many  of  yon  in  merel}'  contemptuous 
curiosity^  to  hearVbat  a  writer  on  painting  could  possibly  say, 
or  would  venture  to  say,  respecting  your  great  art  of  war'";^ 

after  which  stinging  challenge,  one  has  no  doubt,  any 
feeling  of  offense  was  swallowed  up  in  admiration  of  the 
speaker's  physical  courage. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  later  manner  in  which 
Kuskin  allowed  his  Puritan  instincts  to  defeat  his  testheti- 
cism,  and  indulged  to  an  alarming  degree  his  gift  of  vitu- 
peration, was  profoundly  influenced  by  his  "  master,"  Car- 
lyle,  who  had  long  since  passed  into  his  later  and  raucous 
manner.  Carlyle's  delight  in  the  disciple's  diatribes  probably 
encouraged  the  younger  man  in  a  vehemence  of  invective  to 
which  his  love  of  dogmatic  assertion  already  rendered  him 
too  prone.  At  his  best,  Kuskin,  like  Carlyle, 
of  Carlyle      reminds  us  of  a  major  prophet;  at  his  M'orst  he 

upon  shrieks  and  beats  the  air.   His  high  indignations 

Ruskin 

lead  him  into  all  manner  of  absurdity  and  self- 
contradiction.  An  amusing  instance  of  this  may  be  given 
from  Sesame  and  Lilies.  In  the  first  lecture,  which,  it  will 
be  recalled,  was  given  in  aid  of  a  library  fund,  we  find  ^  the 
remark,  "  We  are  filthy  and  foolish  enough  to  thumb  one 
another's  books  out  of  circulating  libraries."   His  friends 

1  Sesame  and  Lilies,  *'  Kin<?s'  Treasuries,"  §§  25,  31. 

2  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  "  War." 
^  "Kings'  Treasuries,"  §  32. 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

and  his  enemies,  the  clergy  (who  "  teach  a  false  gospel  for 
hire  ")  and  the  scientists,  the  merchants  and  the  universities, 
Darwin  and  Dante,  all  had  their  share  in  the  indignant 
lecturer's  indiscriminate  abuse.  And  yet  in  all  the  tropical 
luxuriance  of  his  inconsistency,  one  can  never  doubt  the 
man's  sincerity.  He  never  wrote  for  effect.  He  The  unity 
may  dazzle  us,  but  his  fire  is  never  pyrotech-  ofRuskln's 
nical ;  it  always  springs  from  the  deep  volcanic  ^  ^  ^" 
heart  of  him.  His  was  a  fervor  too  easily  stirred  and  often 
ill-directed,  but  its  wild  brilliance  cannot  long  be  mistaken 
for  the  sky-rocket's ;  it  flares  madly  in  all  directions,  now 
beautifying,  now  appalling,  the  night,  the  fine  ardor  of  the 
painter  passing  into  the  fierce  invective  of  the  prophet. 
But  in  the  end  it  is  seen  that  Ruskin's  style,  like  his  sub- 
ject-matter, is  a  unity,  —  an  emanation  from  a  divine  en- 
thusiasm making  for  '^  whatsoever  things  are  lovely,  Avhat- 
soever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report." 


SELECTIONS   FROM  MODERN  PAINTERS 

The  five  volumes  of  Modern  Painters  appeared  at  vari= 
ous  intervals  between  1843  and  1860,  from  the  time  Rus- 
kin  was  twenty-four  until  he  was  forty.  The  first  volume  was 
published  in  May,  1843;  the  second,  in  April,  1846;  the 
third,  January  15,  1856;  the  fourth,  April  14,  1856;  the 
last,  in  June,  1860.  As  his  knowledge  of  his  subject  broad- 
ened and  deepened,  we  find  the  later  volumes  differing 
greatly  in  viewpoint  and  style  from  the  earlier;  but,  as 
stated  in  the  preface  to  the  last  volume,  ''  in  the  main  aim 
and  principle  of  the  book  there  is  no  variation,  from  its  first 
syllable  to  its  last.'^  Ruskin  himself  maintained  that  the 
most  important  influence  upon  his  thought  in  preparation 
for  his  work  in  Modern  Painters  was  not  from  his  "love 
of  art,  but  of  mountains  and  seas  " ;  and  all  the  power  of 
judgment  he  had  obtained  in  art,  he  ascribed  to  his  "  steady 
habit  of  always  looking  for  the  subject  principally,  and  for 
the  art  only  as  the  means  of  expressing  it."  The  first  vol- 
ume was  published  as  the  work  of  ''  a  graduate  of  Oxford,'' 
Ruskin  ''  fearing  that  I  might  not  obtain  fair  hearing  if  the 
reader  knew  my  youth."  The  author's  proud  father  did  not 
allow  the  secret  to  be  kept  long.  The  title  Ruskin  origi- 
nally chose  for  the  volume  was  Turner  arid  the  Ancients. 
To  this  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  his  publishers,  objected,  and 
the  substitution  of  Modern  Painters  was  their  suggestion. 
The  following  is  the  title-page  of  the  first  volume  in  the 
original  edition: 

MODERN  PAINTERS :  |  Their  Superioritij  [  In  tlu 
Art  of  Landscape  Painting  \  To  all  |  The  Ancient 
Masters  \  proved  by  examples  of  |  The  True,  the 
Beautiful,  and  the  Intellectual,  |  From  the  |  Works 
of  Modern  Artists,  especially  |  From  those  of  J.  M. 
W.  Turner,  Esq. ,  R.  A.  |  By  a  Graduate  of  Oxford  | 
(Quotation  from  Wordsworth)  |  London  :  Smith,  El- 
der &  Co.,  Q>b  Cornhill.  |  1843. 


2  MODERN   PAINTERS 

THE  EARTH-VEIL 
Volume  V,  Chapter  1 

"To  dress  it  and  to  keep  it."  * 

That,  then,  was  to  be  our  work.  Alas!  what  work 
have  we  set  ourselves  upon  instead!  How  have  we 
ravaged  the  garden  instead  of  kept  it  —  feeding  our 
war-horses  with  its  flowers,  and  splintering  its  trees 
into  spear-shafts! 

"And  at  the  East  a  flaming  sword."* 

Is  its  flame  quenchless  ?  and  are  those  gates  that  keep 
the  way  indeed  passable  no  more  ?  or  is  it  not  rather  that 
we  no  more  desire  to  enter  ?  For  what  can  we  conceive 
of  that  first  Eden  which  we  might  not  yet  win  back,  if 
we  chose  ?  It  was  a  place  full  of  flowers,  we  say.  Well : 
the  flowers  are  always  striving  to  grow  wherever  we 
suffer  them;  and  the  fairer,  the  closer.  There  may, 
indeed,  have  been  a  Fall  of  Flowers,  as  a  Fall  of  Man; 
but  assuredly  creatures  such  as  we  are  can  now  fancy 
nothing  lovelier  than  roses  and  lilies,  which  would  grow 
for  us  side  by  side,  leaf  overlapping  leaf,  till  the  Earth 
was  white  and  red  with  them,  if  we  cared  to  have  it  so. 
And  Paradise  was  full  of  pleasant  shades  and  fruitful 
avenues.  Well :  what  hinders  us  from  covering  as  much 
of  the  world  as  we  like  with  pleasant  shade,  and  pure 
blossom,  and  goodly  fruit  ?  Who  forbids  its  valleys  to 
be  covered  over  w^ith  corn  till  they  laugh  and  sing? 
Who  prevents  its  dark  forests,  ghostly  and  uninhabit- 
able, from  being  changed  into  infinite  orchards,  wreath- 
ing the  hills  with  frail-floreted  snow,  far  away  to  the 

'  Genesis  ii,  15;  iii,  24. 


THE    EARTH-VEIL  3 

half-lighted  horizon  of  April,  and  flushing  the  face  of  all 
the  autumnal  earth  with  glow  of  clustered  food  ?  But 
Paradise  was  a  place  of  peace,  we  say,  and  all  the  ani- 
mals were  gentle  servants  to  us.  Well :  the  world  would 
yet  be  a  place  of  peace  if  we  were  all  peacemakers,  and 
gentle  service  should  we  have  of  its  creatures  if  we  gave 
them  gentle  mastery.  But  so  long  as  we  make  sport  of 
slaying  bird  and  beast,  so  long  as  we  choose  to  contend 
rather  with  our  fellows  than  with  our  faults,  and  make 
battlefield  of  our  meadows  instead  of  pasture  —  so  long, 
truly,  the  Flaming  Sword  will  still  turn  every  way,  and 
the  gates  of  Eden  remain  barred  close  enough,  till  we 
have  sheathed  the  sharper  flame  of  our  own  passions, 
and  broken  down  the  closer  gates  of  our  own  hearts. 
I  have  been  led  to  see  and  feel  this  more  and  more,  as 
I  consider  the  service  which  the  flowers  and  trees,  which 
man  was  at  first  appointed  to  keep,  were  intended  to 
render  to  him  in  return  for  his  care ;  and  the  services 
they  still  render  to  him,  as  far  as  he  allows  their  influ- 
ence, or  fulfils  his  own  task  towards  them.  For  what 
infinite  wonderfulness  there  is  in  this  vegetation,  con- 
sidered, as  indeed  it  is,  as  the  means  by  which  the  earth 
becomes  the  companion  of  man  —  his  friend  and  his 
teacher !  In  the  conditions  which  we  have  traced  in  its 
rocks,  there  could  only  be  seen  preparation  for  his  exist- 
ence ;  —  the  characters  which  enable  him  to  live  on  it 
safely,  and  to  work  with  it  easily  —  in  all  these  it  has 
been  inanimate  and  passive ;  but  vegetation  is  to  it  as  an 
imperfect  soul,  given  to  meet  the  soul  of  man.  The 
earth  in  its  depths  must  remain  dead  and  cold,  incapa- 
ble except  of  slow  crystalline  change ;  but  at  its  surface, 
which  human  beings  look  upon  and  deal  with,  it  minis- 
ters to  them  through  a  veil  of  strange  intermediate 
being:  which  breathes,  but  has  no  voice;  moves,  but 


4  MODERN    PAINTERS 

cannot  leave  its  appointed  place;  passes  through  life 
without  consciousness,  to  death  without  bitterness; 
wears  tiie  beauty  of  youth,  witliout  its  passion ;  and 
declines  to  the  weakness  of  age,  without  its  regret. 

And  in  this  mystery  of  intermediate  being,  entirely 
subordinate  to  us,  with  which  we  can  deal  as  we  choose, 
having  just  the  greater  power  as  we  have  the  less  respon- 
sibility for  our  treatment  of  the  unsuffering  creature, 
most  of  the  pleasures  which  we  need  from  the  external 
world  are  gathered,  and  most  of  the  lessons  we  need  are 
written,  all  kinds  of  precious  grace  and  teaching  being 
united  in  this  link  between  the  Earth  and  Man;  won- 
derful in  universal  adaptation  to  his  need,  desire,  and 
discipline ;  God's  daily  preparation  of  the  earth  for  him, 
with  beautiful  means  of  life.  First,  a  carpet  to  make  it 
soft  for  him;  then,  a  coloured  fantasy  of  embroidery 
thereon;  then,  tall  spreading  of  foliage  to  shade  him 
from  sun  heat,  and  shade  also  the  fallen  rain;  that  it 
may  not  dry  quickly  back  into  the  clouds,  but  stay  to 
nourish  the  springs  among  the  moss.  Stout  wood  to 
bear  this  leafage:  easily  to  be  cut,  yet  tough  and  light, 
to  make  houses  for  him,  or  instruments  (lance-shaft,  or 
plough-handle,  according  to  his  temper) ;  useless,  it  had 
been,  if  harder;  useless,  if  less  fibrous;  useless,  if  less 
elastic.  Winter  comes,  and  the  shade  of  leafage  falls 
away,  to  let  the  sun  warm  the  earth ;  the  strong  boughs 
remain,  breaking  the  strength  of  winter  winds.  The 
seeds  which  are  to  prolong  the  race,  innumerable 
according  to  the  need,  are  made  beautiful  and  palatable, 
varied  into  infinitude  of  appeal  to  the  fancy  of  man,  or 
provision  for  his  service :  cold  juice,  or  glowing  spice,  or 
balm,  or  incense,  softening  oil,  preserving  resin,  medi- 
cine of  styptic,  febrifuge,  or  lulling  charm  :  and  all  these 
presented  in  forms  of  endless  change.    Fragility  or 


THE   EARTH-VEIL  5 

force,  softness  and  strength,  in  all  degrees  and  aspects ; 
unerring  uprightness,  as  of  temple  pillars,  or  unguided 
wandering  of  feeble  tendrils  on  the  ground ;  mighty 
resistances  of  rigid  arm  and  limb  to  the  storms  of  ages, 
or  wavings  to  and  fro  with  faintest  pulse  of  summer 
streamlet.  Roots  cleaving  the  strength  of  rock,  or  bind- 
ing the  transience  of  the  sand ;  crests  basking  in  sun- 
shine of  the  desert,  or  hiding  by  dripping  spring  and 
lightless  cave;  foliage  far  tossing  in  entangled  fields 
beneath  every  wave  of  ocean  —  clothing,  with  varie- 
gated, everlasting  films,  the  peaks  of  the  trackless 
mountains,  or  ministering  at  cottage  doors  to  every 
gentlest  passion  and  simplest  joy  of  humanity. 

Being  thus  prepared  for  us  in  all  ways,  and  made 
beautiful,  and  good  for  food,  and  for  building,  and  for 
instruments  in  our  hands,  this  race  of  plants,  deserving 
boundless  affection  and  admiration  from  us,  becomes, 
in  proportion  to  their  obtaining  it,  a  nearly  perfect  test 
of  our  being  in  right  temper  of  mind  and  way  of  life; 
so  that  no  one  can  be  far  wrong  in  either  who  loves 
the  trees  enough,  and  every  one  is  assuredly  wrong 
in  both  who  does  not  love  them,  if  his  life  has  brought 
them  in  his  way.  It  is  clearly  possible  to  do  without 
them,  for  the  great  companionship  of  the  sea  and  sky 
are  all  that  sailors  need;  and  many  a  noble  heart 
has  been  taught  the  best  it  had  to  learn  between  dark 
stone  walls.  Still  if  human  life  be  cast  among  trees 
at  all,  the  love  borne  to  them  is  a  sure  test  of  its  purity. 
And  it  is  a  sorro^\^ul  proof  of  the  mistaken  ways  of 
the  world  that  the  "country,"  in  the  simple  sense 
of  a  place  of  fields  and  trees,  has  hitherto  been  the 
source  of  reproach  to  its  inhabitants,  and  that  the 
words  "countryman,  rustic,  clown,  paysan,  villager," 
still  signify  a  rude  and  untaught  person,  as  opposed 


6  MODERN    PAINTERS 

to  the  words  "townsman"  and  "citizen."  We  accept 
this  usage  of  words,  or  the  evil  which  it  signifies,  some- 
what too  quietly;  as  if  it  were  quite  necessary  and 
natural  that  country-people  should  be  rude,  and  towns- 
people gentle.  Whereas  I  believe  that  the  result  of 
each  mode  of  life  may,  in  some  stages  of  the  world's 
progress,  be  the  exact  reverse;  and  that  another  use 
of  words  may  be  forced  upon  us  by  a  new  aspect  of 
facts,  so  that  we  may  find  ourselves  saying:  "Such 
and  such  a  person  is  very  gentle  and  kind  —  he  is 
quite  rustic ;  and  such  and  such  another  person  is  very 
rude  and  ill-taught  —  he  is  quite  urbane." 

At  all  events,  cities  have  hitherto  gained  the  better 
part  of  their  good  report  through  our  evil  ways  of  going 
on  in  the  world  generally ;  chiefly  and  eminently  through 
our  bad  habit  of  fighting  with  each  other.  No  field,  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  being  safe  from  devastation,  and  every 
country  lane  yielding  easier  passage  to  the  marauders, 
peacefully  -  minded  men  necessarily  congregated  in 
cities,  and  walled  themselves  in,  making  as  few  cross- 
country roads  as  possible :  while  the  men  who  sowed 
and  reaped  the  harvests  of  Europe  were  only  the  serv- 
ants or  slaves  of  the  barons.  The  disdain  of  all  agri- 
cultural pursuits  by  the  nobility,  and  of  all  plain  facts 
by  the  monks,  kept  educated  Europe  in  a  state  of  mind 
over  which  natural  phenomena  could  have  no  power; 
body  and  intellect  being  lost  in  the  practice  of  war 
without  purpose,  and  the  meditation  of  words  without 
meaning.  IMen  learned  the  dexterity  with  sword  and 
syllogism,  which  they  mistook  for  education,  within 
cloister  and  tilt-yard  ;  and  looked  on  all  the  broad  space 
of  the  world  of  God  mainly  as  a  place  for  exercise  of 
horses,  or  for  growth  of  food. 

There  is  a  beautiful  type  of  this  neglect  of  the  per- 


THE    EARTH-VEIL  7 

fectness  of  the  Earth's  beauty,  by  reason  of  the  passions 
of  men,  in  that  picture  of  Paul  Uccello's  of  the  battle 
of  Sant'  Egidio,^  in  which  the  armies  meet  on  a  coun- 
try road  beside  a  hedge  of  wild  roses;  the  tender  red 
flowers  tossing  above  the  helmets,  and  glowing  beneath 
the  lowered  lances.  For  in  like  manner  the  whole  of 
Nature  only  shone  hitherto  for  man  between  the  tossing 
of  helmet-crests;  and  sometimes  I  cannot  but  think  of 
the  trees  of  the  earth  as  capable  of  a  kind  of  sorrow,  in 
that  imperfect  life  of  theirs,  as  they  opened  their  in- 
nocent leaves  in  the  warm  springtime,  in  vain  for  men; 
and  all  along  the  dells  of  England  her  beeches  cast  their 
dappled  shade  only  where  the  outlaw  drew  his  bow,  and 
the  king  rode  his  careless  chase ;  and  by  the  sweet  French 
rivers  their  long  ranks  of  poplar  waved  in  the  twilight, 
only  to  show  the  flames  of  burning  cities  on  the  hori- 
zon, through  the  tracery  of  their  stems;  amidst  the  fair 
defiles  of  the  Apennines,  the  twisted  olive-trunks  hid 
the  ambushes  of  treachery ;  and  on  their  valley  mead- 
ows, day  by  day,  the  lilies  which  were  white  at  the  dawn 
were  washed  with  crimson  at  sunset. 

And  indeed  I  had  once  purposed,  in  this  work,  to 
show  what  kind  of  evidence  existed  respecting  the  pos- 
sible influence  of  country  life  on  men ;  it  seeming  to  me, 
then,  likely  that  here  and  there  a  reader  would  perceive 
this  to  be  a  grave  question,  more  than  most  which  we 
contend  about,  political  or  social,  and  might  care  to 
follow  it  out  with  me  earnestly. 

The  day  will  assuredly  come  when  men  will  see  that 
it  is  a  grave  question  ;  at  which  period,  also,  I  doubt  not, 

^  "In  our  own  National  Gallery.  It  is  quaint  and  imperfect,  but 
of  crreat  interest."  [Ruskin.]  Paolo  Uccello  [c.  1397-1475],  a  Flor- 
entine painter  of  the  Renaissance,  the  first  of  the  naturalists.  His 
real  name  was  Paolo  di  Dono,  but  he  was  called  Uccello  from  his 
fondness  for  birds. 


8  MODERN   PAINTERS 

there  will  arise  persons  able  to  investigate  it.  For  the 
present,  the  movements  of  the  world  seem  little  likely  to 
be  influenced  by  botanical  law;  or  by  any  other  con- 
siderations respecting  trees,  than  the  probable  price 
of  limber.  I  shall  limit  myself,  therefore,  to  my  own 
simple  woodman's  work,  and  try  to  hew  this  book  into 
its  final  shape,  with  the  limited  and  humble  aim  that 
I  had  in  beginning  it,  namely,  to  prove  how  far  the 
idle  and  peaceable  persons,  who  have  hitherto  cared 
about  leaves  and  clouds,  have  rightly  seen,  or  faithfully 
reported  of  them. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  GLORY 

Volume  IV,  Chapter  20 

I  HAVE  dwelt,  in  the  foregoing  chapter,  on  the  sad- 
ness of  the  hills  with  the  greater  insistence  that  I  feared 
my  own  excessive  love  for  them  might  lead  me  into  too 
favourable  interpretation  of  their  influences  over  the 
human  heart ;  or,  at  least,  that  the  reader  might  accuse 
me  of  fond  prejudice,  in  the  conclusions  to  which, 
finally,  I  desire  to  lead  him  concerning  them.  For,  to 
myself,  mountains  are  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  all 
natural  scenery;  in  them,  and  in  the  forms  of  inferior 
landscape  that  lead  to  them,  my  affections  are  wholly 
bound  up;  and  though  I  can  look  with  happy  admira- 
tion at  the  lowland  flowers,  and  woods,  and  open  skies, 
the  happiness  is  tranquil  and  cold,  like  that  of  examin- 
ing detached  flowers  in  a  conservatory,  or  reading  a 
pleasant  book;  and  if  the  scenery  be  resolutely  level, 
insisting  upon  the  declaration  of  its  own  flatness  in  all 
the  detail  of  it,  as  in  Holland,  or  Lincolnshire,  or  Cen- 
tral Lombardy,  it  appears  to  me  Hke  a  prison,  and  I 


THE   MOUNTAIN   GLORY  9 

cannot  long  endure  it.  But  the  slightest  rise  and  fall  In 
the  road,  —  a  mossy  bank  at  the  side  of  a  crag  of  chalk, 
with  brambles  at  its  brow,  overhanging  it,  —  a  ripple 
over  three  or  four  stones  in  the  stream  by  the  bridge,  — 
above  all,  a  wild  bit  of  ferny  ground  under  a  fir  or  two, 
looking  as  if,  possibly,  one  might  see  a  hill  if  one  got  to 
the  other  side  of  the  trees,  will  instantly  give  me  intense 
delight,  because  the  shadow,  or  the  hope,  of  the  hills  is 
in  them.y 

And  thus,  although  there  are  few  districts  of  North- 
ern Europe,  however  apparently  dull  or  tame,  in  which 
I  cannot  find  pleasure,  though  the  whole  of  Northern 
France  (except  Champagne),  dull  as  it  seems  to  most 
travellers,  is  to  me  a  perpetual  Paradise;  and,  putting 
Lincolnshire,  Leicestershire,  and  one  or  two  such  other 
perfectly  flat  districts  aside,  there  is  not  an  English 
county  which  I  should  not  find  entertainment  in  explor- 
ing the  cross-roads  of,  foot  by  foot;  yet  all  my  best 
enjoyment  would  be  owing  to  the  imagination  of  the 
hills,  colouring,  with  their  far-away  memories,  every 
lowland  stone  and  herb.  The  pleasant  French  coteau, 
green  in  the  sunshine,  delights  me,  either  by  what  real 
mountain  character  it  has  in  itself  (for  in  extent  and  suc- 
cession of  promontory  the  flanks  of  the  French  valleys 
have  quite  the  sublimity  of  true  mountain  distances), 
or  by  its  broken  ground  and  rugged  steps  among  the 
vines,  and  rise  of  the  leafage  above,  against  the  blue 
sky,  as  it  might  rise  at  Vevay  or  Como.  There  is  not  a 
wave  of  the  Seine  but  is  associated  in  my  mind  with  the 
first  rise  of  the  sandstones  and  forest  pines  of  Fontaine- 
bleau ;  and  with  the  hope  of  the  Alps,  as  one  leaves  Paris 
with  the  horses'  heads  to  the  south-west,  the  morning 
sun  flashing  on  the  bright  waves  at  Charenton.  If  there 
be  no  hope  or  association  of  this  kind,  and  if  I  cannot 


10  MODERN   PAINTERS 

deceive  myself  into  fancying  that  perhaps  at  the  next 
rise  of  tlie  road  there  may  be  seen  the  film  of  a  blue  hill 
in  the  gleam  of  sky  at  the  horizon,  the  landscape,  how- 
ever beautiful,  produces  in  me  even  a  kind  of  sickness 
and  pain)  and  the  whole  view  from  Richmond  Hill  or 
Windsor  Terrace,  —  nay,  the  gardens  of  Alcinous,  with 
their  perpetual  summer,  —  or  of  the  Hesperides  (if  they 
were  flat,  and  not  close  to  Atlas),  golden  apples  and  all, 
—  I  would  give  away  in  an  instant,  for  one  mossy 
granite  stone  a  foot  broad,  and  two  leaves  of  lady- 
fern.^ 

T[  know  that  this  is  in  great  part  idiosyncrasy;  and 
that  I  must  not  trust  to  my  own  feelings,  in  this  respect, 
as  representative  of  the  modern  landscape  instinct :  yet 
I  know  it  is  not  idiosyncrasy,  in  so  far  as  there  may  be 
proved  to  be  indeed  an  increase  of  the  absolute  beauty 
of  all  scenery  in  exact  proportion  to  its  mountainous 
character,  providing  that  character  be  healthily  moun- 
tainous. I  do  not  mean  to  take  the  Col  de  Bonhomme 
as  representative  of  hills,  any  more  than  I  would  take 
Romney  Marsh  as  representative  of  plains;  but  putting 
Leicestershire  or  Staffordshire  fairly  beside  Westmore- 
land, and  Lombardy  or  Champagne  fairly  beside  the 

^  In  tracing  the  wlwle  of  the  deep  enjoyment  to  mountain  asso- 
ciation, I  of  course  except  whatever  feelinfrs  are  connected  with  the 
observance  of  rural  life,  or  with  that  of  architecture.  None  of  these 
feelings  arise  out  of  the  landscape  properly  so  called:  the  pleasure 
■with  which  we  see  a  peasant's  garden  fairly  kept,  or  a  ploughman 
doing  his  work  well,  or  a  grou}^  of  children  playing  at  a  cottage  door, 
being  wholly  separate  from  that  which  we  find  in  the  fields  or  com- 
mons around  them;  and  the  beauty  of  architecture,  or  the  associa- 
tions connected  with  it,  in  like  manner  often  ennobling  the  most 
tame  scenery;  —  yet  not  so  but  that  we  may  always  distinguish  be- 
tween the  abstract  character  of  the  unassisted  landscape,  and  the 
charm  which  it  derives  from  the  architecture.  Much  of  the  majesty 
of  French  landscape  consists  in  its  grand  and  grey  village  churches 
and  turreted  farmhouses,  not  to  speak  of  its  cathedrals,  castles,  and 
beautifully  placed  cities.  [Ruskin.] 


THE   MOUNTAIN   GLORY  11 

Pays  de  Vaud  or  the  Canton  Berne,'  I  find  the  increase 
in  the  calculable  sum  of  elements  of  Beauty  to  be  stead- 
ily in  proportion  to  the  increase  of  mountainous  char- 
acter ;  and  that  the  best  image  which  the  world  can  give 
of  Paradise  is  in  the  slope  of  the  meadows,  orchards, 
and  corn-fields  on  the  sides  of  a  great  Alp,  with  its  pur- 
ple rocks  and  eternal  snows  above;  this  excellence  not 
being  in  any  wise  a  matter  referable  to  feeling,  or  indi- 
vidual preferences,  but  demonstrable  by  calm  enumer- 
ation of  the  number  of  lovely  colours  on  the  rocks,  the 
varied  grouping  of  the  trees,  and  quantity  of  noble  in- 
cidents in  stream,  crag,  or  cloud,  presented  to  the  eye 
at  any  given  moment. 

For  consider,  first,  the  difference  produced  in  the 
whole  tone  of  landscape  colour  by  the  introductions 
of  purple,  violet,  and  deep  ultramarine  blue,  which  we 
owe  to  mountains.  In  an  ordinary  lowland  landscape 
we  have  the  blue  of  the  sky ;  the  green  of  grass,  which  I 
will  suppose  (and  this  is  an  unnecessary  concession  to 
the  lowlands)  entirely  fresh  and  bright;  the  green  of 
trees ;  and  certain  elements  of  purple,  far  more  rich  and 
beautiful  than  we  generally  should  think,  in  their  bark 
and  shadows  (bare  hedges  and  thickets,  or  tops  of  trees, 
in  subdued  afternoon  sunshine,  are  nearly  perfect  pur- 
ple, and  of  an  exquisite  tone),  as  well  as  in  ploughed 
fields,  and  dark  ground  in  general.  But  among  moun- 
tains, in  addition  to  all  this,  large  unbroken  spaces  of 
pure  violet  and  purple  are  introduced  in  their  distances: 
and  even  near,  by  films  of  cloud  passing  over  the  dark- 
ness of  ravines  or  forests,  blues  are  produced  of  the  most 
subtle  tenderness;  these  azures  and  purples^  passing 

^  One  of  the  principal  reasons  for  the  false  supposition  that 
Switzerland  is  not  jjicturesque,  is  the  error  of  most  sketciiers  and 
painters  in  representing  pine  forest  in  middle  distance  ;is  djuk  (jrcai. 


12  MODERN    PAINTERS 

into  rose-colour  of  otlicrwisc  wholly  unattainable  deli- 
cacy among  the  upper  summits,  the  blue  of  the  sky 
being  at  the  same  time  purer  and  deeper  than  in  the 
plains.  Nay,  in  some  sense,  a  person  who  has  never 
seen  the  rose-colour  of  the  rays  of  dawn  crossing  a  blue 
mountain  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  away,  can  hardly  be 
said  to  know  what  tenderness  in  colour  means  at  all; 
brujht  tenderness  he  may,  indeed,  see  in  the  sky  or  in  a 
flower,  but  this  grave  tenderness  of  the  far-away  hill- 
purples  he  cannot  conceive. 

-Together  with  this  great  source  of  pre-eminence  in 
mass  of  colour,  we  have  to  estimate  the  influence  of  the 
finished  inlaying  and  enamel-work  of  the  colour-jewel- 
lery on  every  stone ;  and  that  of  the  continual  variety  in 
species  of  flower;  most  of  the  mountain  flowers  being, 
besides,  separately  lovelier  than  the  lowland  ones.  The 
wood  hyacinth  and  wild  rose  are,  indeed,  the  only 
supreme  flowers  that  the  lowlands  can  generally  show ; 
and  the  wild  rose  is  also  a  mountaineer,  and  more  fra- 
grant in  the  hills,  while  the  wood  hyacinth,  or  grape 
hyacinth,  at  its  best  cannot  match  even  the  dark  bell- 
gentian,  leaving  the  light-blue  star-gentian  in  its  uncon- 
tested queenliness,  and  the  Alpine  rose  and  Highland 
heather  wholly  without  similitude.  The  violet,  lily  of 
the  valley,  crocus,  and  wood  anemone  are,  I  suppose, 
claimable  partly  by  the  plains  as  well  as  the  hills ;  but 
the  large  orange  lily  and  narcissus  I  have  never  seen  but 

or  grey  green,  whereas  its  true  colour  is  always  purple,  at  distances 
of  even  two  or  three  miles.  Let  any  traveller  coming  down  the  Mon- 
tanvert  look  for  an  aperture,  three  or  four  inches  wide,  between  the 
near  pine  branches,  through  which,  standing  eight  or  ten  feet  from  it, 
he  can  see  the  opix)site  forests  on  the  Breven  or  Flegere.  Those 
forests  are  not  above  two  or  two  and  a  half  miles  from  him ;  but  he 
will  find  the  aperture  is  filled  by  a  tint  of  nearly  pure  azure  or  purple, 
not  by  green.   [Iluskin.] 


THE    MOUNTAIN   GLORY  13 

on  hill  pastures,  and  the  exquisite  oxalisispre-eminenily 
a  mountaineer.^ 

To  this  supremacy  in  mosses  and  flowers  we  have 
next  to  add  an  inestimable  gain  in  the  continual  pre- 
sence and  power  of  water.  Neither  in  its  clearness,  its 
colour,  its  fantasy  of  motion,  its  calmness  of  space, 
depth,  and  reflection,  or  its  wrath,  can  water  be  con- 
ceived by  a  lowlander,  out  of  sight  of  sea.  A  sea  wave 
is  far  grander  than  any  torrent  —  but  of  the  sea  and  its 
influences  we  are  not  now  speaking;  and  the  sea  itself, 
though  it  can  be  clear,  is  never  calm,  among  our  shores, 
in  the  sense  that  a  mountain  lake  can  be  calm.  The  sea 
seems  only  to  pause ;  the  mountain  lake  to  sleep,  and  to 
dream.  Out  of  sight  of  the  ocean  a  lowlander  cannot  be 
considered  ever  to  have  seen  water  at  all.  The  mantling 
of  the  pools  in  the  rock  shadows,  with  the  golden  flakes 
of  light  sinking  down  through  them  like  falling  leaves, 
the  ringing  of  the  thin  currents  among  the  shallows,  the 
flash  and  the  cloud  of  the  cascade,  the  earthquake  and 
foam-fire  of  the  cataract,  the  long  lines  of  alternate 
mirror  and  mist  that  lull  the  imagery  of  the  hills 
reversed  in  the  blue  of  morning,  —  all  these  things 
belong  to  those  hills  as  their  undivided  inheritance. 

To  this  supremacy  in  wave  and  stream  is  joined  a  no 
less  manifest  pre-eminence  in  the  character  of  trees.  It 
is  possible  among  plains,  in  the  species  of  trees  which 
properly  belong  to  them,  the  poplars  of  Amiens,  for 
instance,  to  obtain  a  serene  simplicity  of  grace,  which, 
as  I  said,  is  a  better  help  to  the  study  of  gracefulness,  as 
such,  than  any  of  the  wilder  groupings  of  the  hills;  so, 
also,  there  are  certain  conditions  of  symmetrical  luxuri- 

^  The  Savoyard's  name  for  its  flower,  "Pain  du  Bon  Dieu,"  is 
very  Ijoaiitiful;  from,  I  believe,  the  suf)i)osed  rc.senil)Iance  of  its  white 
and  scattered  blossom  to  the  fallen  manna.    [Ruskin.l 


14  MODERN   PAINTERS 

ance  developed  in  the  park  and  avenue,  rarely  rivalled 
in  their  way  among  mountains;  and  yet  the  mountain 
superiority  in  foliage  is,  on.  the  whole,  nearly  as  com- 
plete as  it  is  in  water:  for  exactly  as  there  are  some 
expressions  in  the  broad  reaches  of  a  navigable  low- 
land river,  such  as  the  Loire  or  Thames,  not,  in  their 
way,  to  be  matched  among  the  rock  rivers,  and  yet  for 
all  that  a  lowlander  cannot  be  said  to  have  truly  seen 
the  element  of  water  at  all ;  so  even  in  the  richest  parks 
and  avenues  he  cannot  be  said  to  have  truly  seen  trees. 
For  the  resources  of  trees  are  not  developed  until  they 
have  difficulty  to  contend  with ;  neither  their  tenderness 
of  brotherly  love  and  harmony,  till  they  are  forced  to 
choose  their  ways  of  various  life  where  there  is  con- 
tracted room  for  them,  talking  to  each  other  with  their 
restrained  branches.  The  various  action  of  trees  rooting 
themselves  in  inhospitable  rocks,  stooping  to  look  into 
ravines,  hiding  from  the  search  of  glacier  winds,  reach- 
ing forth  to  the  rays  of  rare  sunshine,  crowding  down 
together  to  drink  at  sweetest  streams,  climbing  hand  in 
hand  among  the  difficult  slopes,  opening  in  sudden 
dances  round  the  mossy  knolls,  gathering  into  com- 
panies at  rest  among  the  fragrant  fields,  gliding  in 
grave  procession  over  the  heavenw^ard  ridges  —  nothing 
of  this  can  be  conceived  among  the  unvexed  and 
unvaried  felicities  of  the  lowland  forest :  w^hile  to  all 
these  direct  sources  of  greater  beauty  are  added,  first 
the  power  of  redundance,  —  the  mere  quantity  of  foli- 
age visible  in  the  folds  and  on  the  promontories  of  a 
single  Alp  being  greater  than  that  of  an  entire  lowland 
landscape  (unless  a  view  from  some  cathedral  tower) ; 
and  to  this  charm  of  redundance,  that  of  clearer  visibil- 
ity,—  tree  after  tree  being  constantly  shown  in  succes- 
sive height,  one  behind  another,  instead  of  the  mere  tops 


THE    MOUNTAIN    GLORY  15 

and  flanks  of  masses,  as  in  the  plains ;  and  the  forms  of 
multitudes  of  them  continually  defined  against  the  clear 
sky,  near  and  above,  or  against  white  clouds  entangled 
among  their  branches,  instead  of  being  confused  in 
dimness  of  distance. 

Finally,  to  this  supremacy  in  foliage  we  have  to  add 
the  still  less  questionable  supremacy  in  clouds.  Tlier( 
is  no  effect  of  sky  possible  in  the  lowlands  which  ma} 
not  in  equal  perfection  be  seen  among  the  hills;  but 
there  are  effects  by  tens  of  thousands,  for  ever  invisible 
and  inconceivable  to  the  inhabitant  of  the  plains,  mani- 
fested among  the  hills  in  the  course  of  one  day.  The 
mere  power  of  famiharity  with  the  clouds,  of  walking 
with  them  and  above  them,  alters  and  renders  clear  our 
w^hole  conception  of  the  baseless  architecture  of  the  sky; 
and  for  the  beauty  of  it,  there  is  more  in  a  single  wreath 
of  early  cloud,  pacing  its  way  up  an  avenue  of  pines,  or 
pausing  among  the  points  of  their  fringes,  than  in  all  the 
white  heaps  that  fill  the  arched  sky  of  the  plains  from 
one  horizon  to  the  other.  And  of  the  nobler  cloud  mani- 
festations, —  the  breaking  of  their  troublous  seas 
against  the  crags,  their  black  spray  sparkling  with 
lightning;  or  the  going  forth  of  the  morning  ^  along 
their  pavements  of  moving  marble,  level-laid  between 
dome  and  dome  of  snow;  —  of  these  things  there  can 
be  as  little  imagination  or  understanding  in  an  inhab- 
itant of  the  plains  as  of  the  scenery  of  another  planet 
than  his  own. 

And,  observe,  all  these  superiorities  are  matters 
plainly  measurable  and  calculable,  not  in  any  wise  to 
be  referred  to  estimate  of  sensation.  Of  the  grandeur 
or  expression  of  the  hills  I  have  not  spoken ;  how  far 
they  are  great,  or  strong,  or  terrible,  I  do  not  for  the 
^  Ezekiel  vii,  10;  Hosea  vi,  3. 


16  MODERN    PAINTERS 

moment  consider,  because  vasturss,  and  strenrrth,  and 
terror,  are  not  to  all  minds  subjects  of  desired  contem- 
plation. It  may  make  no  difference  to  some  men 
whether  a  natural  object  be  large  or  small,  whether  it 
be  strong  or  feeble.  But  loveliness  of  colour,  perfect- 
ness  of  form,  endlessness  of  change,  wonderfulness  of 
structure,  are  precious  to  all  undiseased  human  minds; 
and  the  superiority  of  the  mountains  in  all  these  things 
to  the  lowland  is,  I  repeat,  as  measurable  as  the  rich- 
ness of  a  painted  window  matched  with  a  white  one,  or 
the  wealth  of  a  museum  compared  with  that  of  a  simply 
furnished  chamber.  They  seem  to  have  been  built  for 
the  human  race,  as  at  once  their  schools  and  cathe- 
drals ;  full  of  treasures  of  illuminated  manuscript  for  the 
scholar,  kindly  in  simple  lessons  to  the  worker,  quiet 
in  pale  cloisters  for  the  thinker,  glorious  in  holiness  for 
the  worshipper.  And  of  these  great  cathedrals  of  the 
earth,  with  their  gates  of  rock,  pavements  of  cloud, 
choirs  of  stream  and  stone,  altars  of  snow,  and  vaults  of 
purple  traversed  by  the  continual  stars,  —  of  these,  as 
we  have  seen,^  it  was  written,  nor  long  ago,  by  one  of  the 
best  of  the  poor  human  race  for  whom  they  were  built, 
wondering  in  himself  for  whom  their  Creator  com/^  have 
made  them,  and  thinking  to  have  entirely  discerned  the 
Divine  intent  in  them  —  "They  are  inhabited  by  the 
Beasts."  ^ 

Was  it  then  indeed  thus  with  us,  and  so  lately  .^  Had 
mankind  offered  no  worship  in  their  mountain  churches  ? 
Was  all  that  granite  sculpture  and  floral  painting  done 
by  the  angels  in  vain.^ 

Not  so.    It  will  need  no  prolonged  thought  to  con- 

^  In  "  Tlie  Mountain  Gloom,"  the  chapter  immediately  precedino;. 
2  Ruskin  refers  to   The  Fulfilling  of    ike  Scripture,  a  book  by 
Robert  Fleming  [1630-94]. 


SUNRISE    ON   THE   ALPS  17 

vince  us  that  in  the  hills  the  purposes  of  their  Maker 
have  indeed  been  accompHshed  in  such  measure  as, 
through  the  sin  or  folly  of  men,  He  ever  permits  them 
to  be  accomplished.  It  may  not  seem,  from  the  general 
language  held  concerning  them,  or  from  any  directly 
traceable  results,  that  mountains  have  had  serious  in- 
fluence on  human  intellect;  but  it  will  not,  I  think,  be 
difficult  to  show  that  their  occult  influence  has  been 
both  constant  and  essential  to  the  progress  of  the  race. 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  ALPS^ 
Volume  I,  Section  3,  Paet  2,  Chapter  4 

Stand  upon  the  peak  of  some  isolated  mountain  at 
daybreak,  when  the  night  mists  first  rise  from  ofl"  the 
plains,  and  watch  their  white  and  lake-like  fields,  as 
they  float  in  level  bays  and  winding  gulfs  about  the 
islanded  summits  of  the  lower  hills,  untouched  yet  by 
more  than  dawn,  colder  and  more  quiet  than  a  windless 
sea  under  the  moon  of  midnight;  watch  when  the  first 
sunbeam  is  sent  upon  the  silver  channels,  how  the 
foam  of  their  undulating  surface  parts  and  passes  away, 
and  down  under  their  deptlis  the  glittering  city  and 
green  pasture  lie  like  Atlantis,^  betweeia  the  white  paths 
of  winding  rivers;  the  flakes  of  light  falling  every  mo- 
ment faster  and  broader  among  the  starry  spires,  as  the 
wreathed  surges  break  and  vanish  above  them,  and  the 
confused  crests  and  ridges  of  the  dark  hills  shorten  their 
^rey  shadows  upon  the  plain^  .  .  .  Wait  a  little  longer, 
and  you  shall  see  those  scattered  mists  rallying  in  the 

*  Some  sentences  of  an  argumentative  nature  have  been  omitted 
from  this  selection. 

2  A  mythical  island  in  the  Atlantic. 


18  MODERN    PAINTERS 

ravines,  and  floating  up  towards  you,  along  the  winding 
valleys,  till  they  crouch  in  quiet  masses,  iridescent  with 
the  morning  light,^  upon  the  broad  breasts  of  the  higher 
liills,  whose  leagues  of  massy  undulation  will  melt  back 
and  back  into  (hat  robe  of  material  light,  until  they  fade 
awav,  lost  in  its  lustre,  to  appear  again  above,  in  the 
serene  hea^ven,  like  a  wild,  bright,  impossible  dream, 
foundationless  and  inaccessible,  their  very  bases  van- 
ishing in  the  unsubstantial  and  mocking  blue  of  the 
deep  lake  below.^  .  .  .  Wait  yet  a  little  longer,  and  you 
shall  see  those  mists  gather  themselves  into  white  tow- 
ers, and  stand  like  fortresses  along  the  promontories, 
massy  and  motionless,  only  piled  with  every  instant 
higher  and  higher  into  the  sky,  and  casting  longer  shad- 
ows athwart  the  rocksj  and  out  of  the  pale  blue  of  the 
horizon  you  will  see  forming  and  advancing  a  troop  of 
narrow,  dark,  pointed  vapours,  which  will  cover  the 
sky,  inch  by  inch,  with  their  grey  network,  and  take  the 
light  off  the  landscape  with  an  eclipse  which  will  stop 
the  singing  of  the  birds  and  the  motion  of  the  leaves, 
tbgether;  and  then  you  will  see  horizontal  bars  of  black 
shadow  forming  under  them,  and  lurid  wreaths  create 
themselves,  you  know  not  how,  along  the  shoulders  of 
the  hills;  you  never  see  them  form,  but  when  you  look 
back  to  a  place  which  was  clear  an  instant  ago,  there  is  a 
cloud  on  it,  hanging  by  the  precipices,  as  a  hawk  pauses 
over  his  prey.  .  .  .  And  then  you  will  hear  the  sud- 
den rush  of  the  awakened  wind,,  and  you  will  see  those 

-  I  have  often  seen  the  white,  thin,  morning  cloud,  edged  with 
the  seven  colours  of  the  prism.  I  am  not  aware  of  the  cause  of  this 
phenomenon,  for  it  takes  place  not  when  we  stand  with  our  backs  to 
the  sun,  but  in  clouds  near  the  sun  itself,  irregularly  and  over  indefi- 
nite spaces,  sometimes  taking  place  in  the  body  of  the  cloud.  The 
colours  are  distinct  and  vivid,  but  have  a  kind  of  metallic  lustre 
upon  them.     [Ruskin.] 

2  Lake  Lucerne.    [Ruskin.] 


SUNRISE    ON   THE    ALPS  19 

watch-towers  of  vapour  swept  away  from  their  founda- 
tions, and  waving  curtains  of  opaque  rain  let  down  to 
the  valleys,  swinging  from  the  burdened  clouds  in  black 
bending  fringes,  or  pacing  in  pale  columns  along  the 
lake  level,  grazing  its  surface  into  foam  as  they  go. 
And  then,  as  the  sun  sinks,  you  shall  see  the  storm  drift 
for  an  instant  from  off  the  hills,  leaving  their  broad 
sides  smoking,  and  loaded  yet  with  snow-white,  torn, 
steam-like  rags  of  capricious  vapour,  now  gone,  now 
gathered  again ;  while  the  smouldering  sun,  seeming  not 
far  away,  but  burning  like  a  red-hot  ball  beside  you, 
and  as  if  you  could  reach  it,  plunges  through  the  rush- 
ing wind  and  rolling  cloud  with  headlong  fall,  as  if  it 
meant  to  rise  no  more,  dyeing  all  the  air  about  it  with 
blood.  .  .  .;And  then  you  shall  hear  the  fainting  tem- 
pest die  in  th€  hollow  of  the  night,  and  you  shall  see  a 
green  halo  kindling  on  the  summit  of  the  eastern  hills, 
brighter  —  brighter  yet,  till  the  large  white  circle  of  the 
slow  moon  is  lifted  up  among  the  barred  clouds,  step  by 
step,  line  by  line ;  star  after  star  she  quenches  with  her 
kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead  an  army  of  pale, 
penetrable,  fleecy  wreaths  in  the  heaven,  to  give  light 
upon  the  earth,  which  move  together,  hand  in  hand, 
company  by  company,  troop  by  troop,  so  measured  in 
their  unity  of  motion,  that  the  whole  heaven  seems  to 
roll  with  them,  and  the  earth  to  reel  under  them.  .  .  . 
And  then  wait  yet  for  one  hour,  until  the  east  again 
becomes  purple,  and  the  heaving  mountains,  rolling 
against  it  in  darkness,  like  waves  of  a  wild  sea,  are 
drowned  one  by  one  in  the  glory  of  its  burnings  watch 
the  white  glaciers  blaze  in  their  winding  paths  about 
the  mountains,  like  mighty  serpents  with  scales  of  fire.: 
watch  the  columnar  peaks  of  solitary  snow,  kindling 
downwards,  chasm   by  chasm,  each  in  itself  a  new 


20  MODERN    PAINTERS 

morning;  tluMr  long  avalanches  cast  down  in  keen 
streams  brigiiter  than  the  lightning,  sending  each  his 
tribute  of  driven  snow,  like  altar-smoke,  up  to  the 
heavelT;  the  rose-light  of  their  silent  domes  flushing 
that  heaven  about  them  and  above  them, piercing  with 
purer  light  through  its  purple  lines  of  lifted  cloud, 
casting  a  new  glory  on  every  wreath  as  it  passes  by, 
until  the  whole  heaven,  one  scarlet  canopy,  is  inter- 
woven with  a  roof  of  waving  flame,  and  tossing,  vault 
beyond  vault,  as  w^ith  the  drifted  wings  of  many  com- 
panies of  angels:  and  then,  when  you  can  look  no 
more  for  gladness,  and  when  you  are  bowed  down  with 
fear  and  love  of  the  Maker  and  Doer  of  this,  tell  me 
who  has  best  delivered  this  His  message  unto  men !  ^ 


THE  GRAND  STYLE  2 

Volume  III,  Chapter  1 

In  taking  up  the  clue  of  an  inquiry,  now  intermitted 
for  nearly  ten  years,  it  may  be  well  to  do  as  a  traveller 
would,  who  had  to  recommence  an  interrupted  journey 
in  a  guideless  country;  and,  ascending,  as  it  were,  some 
little  hill  beside  our  road,  note  how  far  we  have  already 
advanced,  and  what  pleasantest  ways  we  may  choose 
for  farther  progress. 

1  endeavoured,  in  the  beginning  of  the  first  volume, 
to  divide  the  sources  of  pleasure  open  to  us  in  Art  into 
certain  groups,  which  might  conveniently  be  studied  in 
succession.  After  some  preliminary  discussion,  it  was 
concluded  that  these  groups  were,  in  the  rdain,  three; 

*  The  implication  is  that  Turner  has  best  delivered  it. 

2  The  full  title  of  this  chapter  is  "Of  the  Received  Opinions 
touching  the  '  Grand  Style.'  " 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  21 

consisting,  first,  of  the  pleasures  taken  in  perceiving 
simple  resemblance  to  Nature  (Ideas  of  Truth) ;  sec- 
ondly, of  the  pleasures  taken  in  the  beauty  of  the  things 
chosen  to  be  painted  (Ideas  of  Beauty) ;  and,  lastly,  of 
pleasures  taken  in  the  meanings  and  relations  of  these 
things  (Ideas  of  Relation). 

The  first  volume,  treating  of  the  ideas  of  Truth,  was 
chiefly  occupied  with  an  inquiry  into  the  various  suc- 
cess with  which  different  artists  had  represented  the 
facts  of  Nature,  —  an  inquiry  necessarily  conducted 
very  imperfectly,  owing  to  the  want  of  pictorial  illustra- 
tion. 

The  second  volume  merely  opened  the  inquiry  into 
the  nature  of  ideas  of  Beauty  and  Relation,  by  analys- 
ing (as  far  as  I  was  able  to  do  so)  the  two  faculties  of 
the  human  mind  which  mainly  seized  such  ideas; 
namely,  the  contemplative  and  imaginative  faculties. 

It  remains  for  us  to  examine  the  various  success  of 
artists,  especially  of  the  great  landscape-painter  whose 
works  have  been  throughout  our  principal  subject,  in 
addressing  these  faculties  of  the  human  mind,  and  to 
consider  who  among  them  has  conveyed  the  noblest 
ideas  of  beauty,  and  touched  the  deepest  sources  of 
thought. 

I  do  not  intend,  however,  now  to  pursue  the  inquiry 
in  a  method  so  laboriously  systematic ;  for  the  subject 
may,  it  seems  to  me,  be  more  usefully  treated  by  pursu- 
ing the  different  questions  which  rise  out  of  it  just  as  they 
occur  to  us,  without  too  great  scrupulousness  in  mark- 
ing connections,  or  insisting  on  sequences.  Much  time 
is  wasted  by  human  beings,  in  general,  on  establish- 
ment of  systems;  and  it  often  takes  more  labour  to 
master  the  intricacies  of  an  artificial  connection,  than  to 
remember  the  separate  facts  which  are  so  carefully  con- 


22  MODERN   PAINTERS 

nected.  I  suspect  that  system-makers,  in  general,  are 
not  of  much  more  use,  each  in  his  own  domain,  than, 
n  that  of  Pomona,  the  old  women  who  tie  cherries  upon 
sticks,  for  the  more*  convenient  portablencss  of  the 
same.  To  cultivate  well,  and  choose  well,  your  cherries, 
is  of  some  importance ;  but  if  they  can  be  had  in  their 
own  wild  way  of  clustering  about  their  crabbed  stalk, 
it  is  a  better  connection  for  them  than  any  other ;  and,  if 
they  cannot,  then,  so  that  they  be  not  bruised,  it  makes 
to  a  boy  of  a  practical  disposition  not  much  difference 
whether  he  gets  them  by  handfuls,  or  in  beaded  sym- 
metry on  the  exalting  stick.  I  purpose,  therefore,  hence- 
forward to  trouble  myself  little  with  sticks  or  twine,  but 
to  arrange  my  chapters  with  a  view  to  convenient  refer- 
ence, rather  than  to  any  careful  division  of  subjects, 
and  to  follow  out,  in  any  by-ways  that  may  open,  on 
right  hand  or  left,  w^hatever  question  it  seems  useful  at 
any  moment  to  settle. 

And,  in  the  outset,  I  find  myself  met  by  one  which  I 
ought  to  have  touched  upon  before  —  one  of  especial 
interest  in  the  present  state  of  the  Arts.  I.have  said  that 
the  art  is  greatest  which  includes  the  greatest  ideas ;  but 
I  have  not  endeavoured  to  define  the  nature  of  this 
greatness  in  the  ideas  themselves.  We  speak  of  great 
truths,  of  great  beauties,  great  thoughts.  What  is  it 
which  makes  one  truth  greater  than  another,  one 
thought  greater  than  another?  This  question  is,  I 
repeat,  of  peculiar  importance  at  the  present  time ;  for, 
during  a  period  now  of  some  hundred  and  fifty  years, 
all  writers  on  Art  w^ho  have  pretended  to  eminence, 
have  insisted  much  on  a  supposed  distinction  between 
what  they  call  the  Great  and  the  Low  Schools;  using 
the  terms  "  High  Art,"  "  Great  orldeal  Style,"  and  other 
such,  as  descriptive  of  a  certain  noble  manner  of  painl- 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  23 

ing,  which  it  was  desirable  that  all  students  of  Art 
should  be  early  led  to  reverence  and  adopt ;  and  char- 
acterizing as  "vulgar,"  or  "low,"  or  "realist,"  another 
manner  of  painting  and  conceiving,  which  it  was  equally 
necessary  that  all  students  should  be  taught  to  avoid. 

But  lately  this  established  teaching,  never  very  intel- 
ligible, has  been  gravely  called  in  question.  The  advo- 
cates and  self -supposed  practisers  of  "High  Art"  are 
beginning  to  be  looked  upon  with  doubt,  and  their 
peculiar  phraseology  to  be  treated  with  even  a  certain 
degree  of  ridicule.  And  other  forms  of  Art  are  partly 
developed  among  us,  which  do  not  pretend  to  be  high, 
but  rather  to  be  strong,  healthy,  and  humble.  This 
matter  of  "highness"  in  Art,  therefore,  deserves  our 
most  careful  consideration.  Has  it  been,  or  is  it,  a  true 
highness,  a  true  princeliness,  or  only  a  show  of  it,  con 
sisting  in  courtly  manners  and  robes  of  state  .'^  Is  it 
rocky  height  or  cloudy  height,  adamant  or  vapour,  on 
which  the  sun  of  praise  so  long  has  risen  and  set .''  It 
will  be  well  at  once  to  consider  this. 

And  first,  let  us  get,  as  quickly  as  may  be,  at  the 
exact  meaning  with  which  the  advocates  of  "High 
Art"  use  that  somewhat  obscure  and  figurative  term. 

I  do  not  know  that  the  principles  in  question  are  any- 
where more  distinctly  expressed  than  in  two  papers  in 
the  Idler,  written  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  of  course 
under  the  immediate  sanction  of  Johnson ;  and  which 
may  thus  be  considered  as  the  utterance  of  the  views 
then  held  upon  the  subject  by  the  artists  of  chief  skill, 
and  critics  of  most  sense,  arranged  in  a  form  so  brief 
and  clear  as  to  admit  of  their  being  brought  before  the 
public  for  a  morning's  entertainment.  I  cannot,  there- 
fore, it  seems  to  me,  do  better  than  quote  these  two  let- 
ters, or  at  least  the  important  parts  of  them,  examining 


r 

-1 


24  MODERN    PAINTERS 

the  exact  meaninij^  of  each  passage  as  it  occurs.  There 
are,  in  all,  in  the  Idler  three  letters  on  painting,  Nos.  76, 
79,  and  82 ;  of  these,  the  first  is  directed  only  against 
the  impertinences  of  pretended  connoisseurs,  and  is  as 
notable  for  its  faithfulness  as  for  its  wit  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  several  modes  of  criticism  in  an  artificial  and 
ignorant  state  of  society  :  it  is  only,  therefore,  in  the  two 
last  papers  that  we  find  the  expression  of  the  doctrines 
which  it  is  our  business  to  examine. 

No.  79  (Saturday,  October  20,  1759)  begins,  after  a 
short  preamble,  with  the  following  passage :  — 

"Amongst  the  Painters, and  the  writers  on  Painting, 
there  is  one  maxim  universally  admitted  and  continu- 
ally inculcated./ /mi^a^^  natur&is  the  invariable  rule;, 
but  I  know  noneXvho  have  explained  in  what  manner  ^ 
this  rule  is  to  be  understood ;  the  consequence  of  which 
is,  that  everyone  takes  it  in  the  most  obvious  sense  — 
that  objects  are  represented  naturally,  when  they  have 
such  relief  that  they  seem  real.  It  may  appear  strange, 
perhaps,  to  hear  this  sense  of  the  rule  disputed ;  but  it 
must  be  considered,  that,  if  the  excellency  of  a  Painter 
consisted  only  in  this  kind  of  imitation,  Painting  must 
lose  its  rank,  and  be  no  longer  considered  as  a  liberal 
art/  and  sister  to  Poetry :  this  imitation  being  merely 
mechanical,  in  which  the  slowest  intellect  is  always  sure 
to  succeed  best ;  for  the  Painter  of  genius  cannot  stoop 
to  drudgery,  in  which  the  understanding  has  no  part ; 
and  what  pretence  has  the  Art  to  claim  kindred  with 
Poetry  but  by  its  power  over  the  imagination  ?  To  this 
power  the  Painter  of  genius  directs  him ;  in  this  sense 
he  studies  Nature,  and  often  arrives  at  his  end,  even  by 
being  unnatural  in  the  confined  sense  of  the  word. 

"The  grand  style  of  Painting  requires  this  minute 
attention  to  be  carefully  avoided,  and  must  be  kept  as 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  25 

separate  from  it  as  the  style  of  Poetry  from  that  of  His- 
tory. (Poetical  ornaments  destroy  that  air  of  truth  and 
plainness  which  ought  to  characterize  History ;  but  the 
very  being  of  Poetry  consists  in  departing  from  this 
plain  narrative,  and  adopting  every  ornament  that  will 
A^arm  the  imagination.)^  To  desire  to  see  the  excel- 
iences  of  each  style  united  —  to  mingle  the  Dutch  with 
the  Italian  school,  is  to  join  contrarieties  which  cannot 
subsist  together,  and  which  destroy  the  efficacy  of  each 
other." 

We  find,  first,  from  this  interesting  passage,  that  the 
writer  considers  the  Dutch  and  Italian  masters  as 
severally  representative  of  the  low  and  high  schools; 
next,  that  he  considers  the  Dutch  painters  as  excelling 
in  a  mechanical  imitation,  "in  which  the  slowest  intel- 
lect is  always  sure  to  succeed  best";  and,  thirdly,  that 
he  considers  the  Italian  painters  as  excelling  in  a  style 
which  corresponds  to  that  of  imaginative  poetry  in  liter- 
ature, and  which  has  an  exclusive  right  to  be  called  the 
grand  style. 

I  wish  that  it  were  in  my  power  entirely  to  concur 
with  the  writer,  and  to  enforce  this  opinion  thus  dis- 
tinctly stated.  I  have  never  been  a  zealouk  partisan 
of  the  Dutch  School,  and  should  rejoice  in  claiming 
Reynolds's  authority  for  the  assertion,  that  their  man- 
ner was  one  "in  which  the  slowest  intellect  is  always 
sure  to  succeed  best."  But  before  his  authority  can  be 
so  claimed,  we  must  observe  exactly  the  meaning  of  the 
assertion  itself,  and  separate  it  from  the  company  of 
some  others  not  perhaps  so  admissible.  First,  I  say,  we 

^  I  have  put  this  sentence  in  a  parenthesis,  because  it  is  incon- 
sistent with  the  rest  of  the  statement,  and  with  the  creneral  teaching 
of  the  paper;  since  that  which  "attends  only  to  the  invariable"  can- 
not certainly  adopt  "every  ornament  that  will  warm  the  imagina- 
iion."    [Ruskin.] 


26  MODERN   PAINTERS 

/must  observe  Reynolds's  exaet  meaning,  for  (though 

Hne  assertion  may  at  first  appear  singular)  a  man  who 
uses  accurate  language  is  always  more  liable  to  misin- 
terpretation than  one  who  is  careless  in  his  expressions. 
"We  may  assume  that  the  latter  means  very  nearly  what 
we  at  first  suppose  him  to  mean,  for  words  which  have 
been  uttered  without  thought  may  be  received  without 
examination.  But  when  a  writer  or  speaker  may  be 
fairly  supposed  to  have  considered  his  expressions  care- 
fully, and,  after  having  revolved  a  number  of  terms  in 
his  mind,  to  have  chosen  the  one  which  exactly  means 
the  thing  he  intends  to  say,  we  may  be  assured  that 
what  costs  him  time  to  select,  will  require  from  us  time 
to  understand,  and  that  we  shall  do  him  wrong,  unless 
we  pause  to  reflect  how  the  word  which  he  has  actually 
employed  differs  from  other  words  which  it  seems  he 
might  have  employed.  It  thus  constantly  happens  that 
persons  themselves  unaccustomed  to  think  clearly,  or 
speak  correctly,  misunderstand  a  logical  and  careful 
writer,  and  are  actually  in  more  danger  of  being  misled 
by  language  which  is  measured  and  precise,  than  by 
that  which  is  loose  and  inaccurate. 

Now,  in  the  instance  before  us,  a  person  not  accus- 
tomed to  good  writing  might  very  rashly  conclude  that 
when  Reynolds  spoke  of  the  Dutch  School  as  one  "in 
which  the  slowest  intellect  was  sure  to  succeed  best,"  he 

I  meant  to  say  that  every  successful  Dutch  painter  was 
a  fool.    We  have  no  right  to  take  his  assertion  in  that 

'  sense.  He  says,  the  slowest  intellect.  We  have  no  right 
to  assume  that  he  meant  the  weakest.  For  it  is  true, 
that  in  order  to  succeed  in  the  Dutch  style,  a  man  has 
need  of  quahties  of  mind  eminently  delibepate  and  sus- 
tained. He  must  be  possessed  of  patience  rather  than 
of  power ;  and  must  feel  no  weariness  in  contemplating 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  27 

the  expression  of  a  single  thought  for  several  months 
together.  As  opposed  to  the  changeful  energies  of  the 
imagination,  these  mental  characters  may  be  properly 
spoken  of  as  under  the  general  term  —  slowness  of 
intellect.  But  it  by  no  means  follows  that  they  are 
necessarily  those  of  weak  or  foolish  men. 

We  observe,   however,  farther,  that  the  imitation 
which  Reynolds  supposes  to  be  characteristic  of  the 
Dutch  School  is  that  which  gives  to  objects  such  relief 
that  they  seem  real,  and  that  he  then  speaks  of  this  art   » 
of  realistic  imitation  as  corresponding  to  history  in   | 
literature. 

Reynolds,  therefore,  seems  to  class  these  dull  works 
of  the  Dutch  School  under  a  general  head,  to  which 
they  are  not  commonly  referred  —  that  of  historical 
painting;  while  he  speaks  of  the  works  of  the  Italian 
School  not  as  historical,  but  as  foetical  painting.  His 
next  sentence  will  farther  manifest  his  meaning. 

"  The  Italian  attends  only  to  the  invariable,  the  great 
and  general  ideas  which  are  fixed  and  inherent  in  uni- 
versal Nature;  the  Dutch,  on  the  contrary,  to  literal 
truth  and  a  minute  exactness  in  the  detail,  as  I  may  say, 
of  Nature  modified  by  accident.  The  attention  to  these 
petty  peculiarities  is  the  very  cause  of  this  naturalness 
so  much  admired  in  the  Dutch  pictures,  which,  if  we 
suppose  it  to  be  a  beauty,  is  certainly  of  a  lower  order, 
which  ought  to  give  place  to  a  beauty  of  a  superior  kind, 
since  one  cannot  be  obtained  but  by  departing  from  the 
other. 

"If  my  opinion  was  asked  concerning  the  works  . 
of  Michael  Angelo,  whether  they  would  receive  any  \ 
j,dvantage  from  possessing  this  mechanical  merit,  I   I 
should  not  scruple  to  say,  they  would  not  only  receive    ' 
no  advantage,  but  would  lose,  in  a  great  measure,  the 


28  MODERN   PAINTERS 

effect  which  they  now  have  on  every  mind  susceptible 
of  great  and  noble  ideas.  His  works  may  be  said  to  be  all 
genius  and  soul ;  and  why  should  they  be  loaded  with 
heavy  matter,  which  can  only  counteract  his  purpose 
by  retarding  the  progress  of  the  imagination  ?  " 

Examining  carefully  this  and  the  preceding  passage, 
we  find  the  author's  unmistakable  meaninor  to  be,  that 
Dutch  painting  is  history  ;  attending  to  literal  truth  and 
"minute  exactness  in  the  details  of  nature  modified  by 
accident."  That  Italian  painting  is  poetry,  attending 
only  to  the  invariable;  and  that  works  which  attend 
only  to  the  invariable  are  full  of  genius  and  soul ;  but 
that  literal  truth  and  exact  detail  are  "heavy  matter 
which  retards  the  progress  of  the  imagination." 

This  being  then  indisputably  what  Reynolds  means 
to  tell  us,  let  us  think  a  little  whether  he  is  in  all  respects 
right.  And  first,  as  he  compares  his  two  kinds  of  paint- 
ing to  history  and  poetry,  let  us  see  how  poetry  and 
history  themselves  differ,  in  their  use  of  variable  and 
invariable  details.  I  am  waiting  at  a  window  which 
commands  a  view  of  the  head  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva ; 
and  as  I  look  up  from  my  paper,  to  consider  this  point, 
I  see,  beyond  it,  a  blue  breadth  of  softly  moving  water, 
and  the  outline  of  the  mountains  above  Chillon,  bathed 
in  morning  mist.  The  first  verses  which  naturally  come 
into  my  mind  are  — 

A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
The  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
So  far  the  fathom  line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement.* 

Let  us  sec  in  what  manner  this  poetical  statement  is 
distinguished  from  a  historical  one. 

^  Stanza  6  of  Byron's  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  quoted  with  a  slight 
inaccuracy. 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  29. 

It  is  distinguished  from  a  truly  historical  statement,  1 
first,  in  being  simply  false.  The  water  under  the  Castle  \ 
of  Chillon  is  not  a  thousand  feet  deep,  nor  anything  like   \ 
it.^   Herein,  certainly,  these  lines  fulfil  Reynolds's  first    * 
requirement  in  poetry,  "that  it  should  be  inattentive 
to  literal  truth  and  minute  exactness  in  detail."    In 
order,  however,  to  make  our  comparison  more  closely 
in  other  points,  let  us  assume  that  what  is  stated  is 
indeed  a  fact,  and  that  it  was  to  be  recorded,  first  his- 
torically, and  then  poetically. 

Historically  stating  it,  then,  we  should  say:  "The 
lake  was  sounded  from  the  walls  of  the  Castle  of  Chil- 
lon, and  found  to  be  a  thousand  feet  deep." 

Now,  if  Reynolds  be  right  in  his  idea  of  the  difference 
between  history  and  poetry,  we  shall  find  that  Byron 
leaves  out  of  this  statement  certain  in? necessary  details, 
and  retains  only  the  invariable,  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
points  which  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and  Castle  of  Chillon 
have  in  common  with  all  other  lakes  and  castles. 

Let  us  hear,  therefore.  | 

A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below.  j 

" Below ".^  Here  is,  at  all  events,  a  word  added 
(instead  of  anything  being  taken  away) ;  invariable, 
certainly  in  the  case  of  lakes,  but  not  absolutely  neces- 
sary. 

The  massy  waters  meet  and  flow.  | 

"  Massy " !   why    massy  ?     Because    deep    water    is    V 
heavy.  The  word  is  a  good  word,  but  it  is  assuredly  an 
added  detail,  and  expresses  a  character,  not  which  the 

^  "Messrs.  Mallet  and  Pictet.  bein<?  on  the  lake,  in  front  of  the 
Castle  of  Chillon.  on  August  6,  177-i,  sunk  a  thermometer  to  the 
depth  of  312  feet."  .  .  .  —  Saussure,  Voyages  dans  les  Alpes, 
chap,  ii,  §  33.  It  appears  from  the  next  paragraph,  that  the  ther- 
mometer was  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake.   [Ruskin,  altered.] 


30  MODERN    PAINTERS 

Lake  of  Geneva  has  in  common  with  all  other  lakes, 
but  which  it  has  in  distinction  from  those  which  are 
narrow,  or  sliallow. 

"  Meet  and  flow."  Why  meet  and  flow  ?  Partly  to 
make  up  a  rhyme ;  partly  to  tell  us  that  the  waters  are 
forceful  as  well  as  massy,  and  changeful  as  well  as 
deep.  Observe,  a  farther  addition  of  details,  and  of 
details  more  or  less  peculiar  to  the  spot,  or,  according 
to  Reynolds's  definition,  of  "heavy  matter,  retarding 
the  progress  of  the  imagination." 

So  far  the  fathom  line  was  sent. 

/  Why  fathom  line?  AU  lines  for  sounding  are  not 
fathom  lines.  If  the  lake  was  ever  sounded  from  Chil- 
lon,  it  was  probably  sounded  in  metres,  not  fathoms. 
This  is  an  addition  of  another  particular  detail,  in 
which  the  only  compliance  with  Reynolds's  require- 
ment is,  that  there  is  some  chance  of  its  being  an  inac- 
curate one. 

From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement. 

Why  snow-white?  Because  castle  battlements  are 
not  usually  snow-white.  This  is  another  added  detail, 
and  a  detail  quite  peculiar  to  Chillon,  and  therefore 
exactly  the  most  striking  word  in  the  whole  passage. 

"  Battlement "  !  W^hy  battlement  ?  Because  all  walls 
have  not  battlements,  and  the  addition  of  the  term 
marks  the  castle  to  be  not  merely  a  prison,  but  a 
fortress. 

/    This  is  a  curious  result.   Instead  of  finding,  as  we 

/y  expected,  the  poetry  distinguished  from  the  history  by 

/  the  omission  of  details,  w^e  find  it  consist  entirely  in  the 

/   addition  of  details ;  and  instead  of  being  characterized 

/     by  regard  only  of  the  invariable,  we  find  its  whole  power 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  31 

to  consist  in  the  clear  expression  of  what  is  singular  and  i 
particular ! 

The  reader  may  pursue  the  investigation  for  himself 
in  other  instances.  He  will  find  in  every  case  that  a 
poetical  is  distinguished  from  a  merely  historical  state- 
ment, not  by  being  more  vague,  but  more  specific;  and 
it  might,  therefore,  at  first  appear  that  our  author's 
comparison  should  be  simply  reversed,  and  that  the 
Dutch  School  should  be  called  poetical,  and  the  Italian 
historical.  But  the  term  poetical  does  not  appear  very 
applicable  to  the  generality  of  Dutch  painting;  and  a 
little  reflection  will  show  us,  that  if  the  Italians  repre- 
sent only  the  invariable,  they  cannot  be  properly  com- 
pared even  to  historians.  For  that  which  is  incapable  of 
change  has  no  history,  and  records  which  state  only  the 
invariable  need  not  be  written,  and  could  not  be  read. 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  our  author  has  entangled 
himself  in  some  grave  fallacy,  by  introducing  this  idea 
of  invariableness  as  forming  a  distinction  between 
poetical  and  historical  art.  What  the  fallacy  is,  we  shall 
discover  as  we  proceed ;  but  as  an  invading  army  should 
not  leave  an  untaken  fortress  in  its  rear,  we  must  not  go 
on  with  our  inquiry  into  the  views  of  Reynolds  until 
we  have  settled  satisfactorily  the  question  already  sug- 
gested to  us,  in  what  the  essence  of  poetical  treatment 
really  consists.  For  though,  as  we  have  seen,  it  cer- 
tainly involves  the  addition  of  specific  details,  it  can- 
not be  simply  that  addition  which  turns  the  history  into 
poetry.  For  it  is  perfectly  possible  to  add  any  number 
of  details  to  a  historical  statement,  and  to  make  it  more 
prosaic  with  every  added  word.  As,  for  instance,  "  The 
lake  was  sounded  out  of  a  flat-bottomed  boat,  near  the 
crab-tree  at  the  corner  of  the  kitchen-garden,  and  was 
found  to  be  a  thousand  feet  nine  inches  deep,  with  a 


82  MODERN    PAINTERS 

miidcly  bottom."  It  thus  apj)cars  that  it  is  not  the  mul- 
tiplication of  details  which  constitutes  poetry;  nor  their 
subtraction  which  constitutes  history,  but  that  there 
must  be  something  either  in  the  nature  of  the  details 
themselves,  or  the  method  of  using  them,  which  invests 
them  with  poetical  power  or  historical  propriety. 

It  seems  to  me,  and  may  seem  to  the  reader,  strange 
that  v/e  should  need  to  ask  the  question,  "  What  is 
poetry  ?  "  Here  is  a  word  we  have  been  using  all  our 
lives,  and,  I  suppose,  with  a  very  distinct  idea  attached 
to  it ;  and  when  I  am  now  called  upon  to  give  a  defini- 
tion of  this  idea,  I  find  myself  at  a  pause.  What  is  more 
singular,  I  do  not  at  present  recollect  hearing  the  ques- 
tion often  asked,  though  surely  it  is  a  very  natural  one; 
and  I  never  recollect  hearing  it  answered,  or  even 
attempted  to  be  answered.  In  general,  people  shelter 
themselves  under  metaphors,  and  while  we  hear  poetry 
described  as  an  utterance  of  the  soul,  an  effusion  of 
Divinity,  or  voice  of  nature,  or  in  other  terms  equally 
elevated  and  obscure,  we  never  attain  anything  like 
a  definite  explanation  of  the  character  which  actually 
distinguishes  it  from  prose. 

'  I  come,  after  some  embarrassment,  to  the  conclusion, 
that  poetry  is  "the  suggestion,  by  the  imagination,  of 
noble  grounds  for  the  noble  emotions."  ^  I  mean,  by 
the  noble  emotions,  those  four  principal  sacred  pas- 
sions —  Love,  Veneration,  Admiration,  and  Joy  (this 
latter  especially,  if  unselfish) ;  and  their  opposites  — ■ 
Hatred,  Indignation  (or  Scorn),  Horror,  and  Grief,  — • 
this  last,  when  unselfish,  becoming  Compassion.  These 
passions  in  their  various  combinations  constitute  what 
is  called  "poetical  feeling,"  when  they  are  felt  on  noble 
grounds,  that  is,  on  great  and  true  grounds.   Indigna- 

*  Iluskin  later  wTote:  "It  leaves  out  rhythm,  which  I  now  con- 
sider a  defect  in  said  definition;  otherwise  good." 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  33 

tion,  for  instance,  is  a  poetical  feeling,  if  excited  by  seri- 
ous injury ;  but  it  is  not  a  poetical  feeling  if  entertained 
on  being  cheated  out  of  a  small  sum  of  money.  It  is 
very  possible  the  manner  of  the  cheat  may  have  been 
such  as  to  justify  considerable  indignation;  but  the 
feeling  is  nevertheless  not  poetical  unless  the  grounds 
of  it  be  large  as  well  as  just.  In  like  manner,  energetic 
admiration  may  be  excited  in  certain  minds  by  a  dis- 
play of  fireworks,  or  a  street  of  handsome  shops ;  but 
the  feeling  is  not  poetical,  because  the  grounds  of  it  are 
false,  and  therefore  ignoble.  There  is  in  reality  nothing 
to  deserve  admiration  either  in  the  firing  of  packets  of 
gunpowder,  or  in  the  display  of  the  stocks  of  ware- 
houses. But  admiration  excited  by  the  budding  of  a 
flower  is  a  poetical  feeling,  because  it  is  impossible  that 
this  manifestation  of  spiritual  power  and  vital  beauty 
can  ever  be  enough  admired. 

Farther,  it  is  necessary  to  the  existence  of  poetry  that 
the  grounds  of  these  feelings  should  he  furnished  hy  the  \ 
imagination.  Poetical  feeling,  that  is  to  say,  mere  noble  1 
emotion,  is  not  poetry.    It  is  happily  inherent  in  all 
human  nature  deserving  the  name,  and  is  found  often 
to  be  purest  in  the  least  sophisticated.  But  the  power  of 
assembling,  by  the  help  of  the  imagination,  such  images 
as  will  excite  these  feelings,  is  the  po\Ver  of  the  poet  or;    /^t 
hterally  of  the  "  Maker."  '  Z^, 

^  Take,  for  instance,   the  beautiful  stanza   in   the  Ajfliciion   of 
Margaret  : 

I  look  for  ghosts,  but  none  will  force 

Their  way  to  me.    'T  is  falsely  said 
That  ever  there  was  intercourse 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead; 
For,  surely,  then,  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  1  wait  for,  day  and  night. 
With  love  and  longing  infinite. 

This  we  call  Poetry,  because  it  is  invented  or  made  by  the  writer, 


84  MODERN    PAINTERS 

Now  this  power  of  exciting  the  emotions  depends  of 
course  on  the  richness  of  the  imagination,  and  on  its 
choice  of  those  images  which,  in  combination,  will  be 
most  effective,  or,  for  the  particular  work  to  be  done, 
most  fit.  x\nd  it  is  altogether  impossible  for  a  writer  not 
endowed  with  invention  to  conceive  what  tools  a  true 
poet  will  make  use  of,  or  in  what  way  he  will  apply  them, 
or  what  unexpected  results  he  w^ill  bring  out  by  them ; 
so  that  it  is  vain  to  say  that  the  details  of  poetry  ought 
to  possess,  or  ever  do  possess,  any  definite  character. 
Generally  speaking,  poetry  runs  into  finer  and  more 
delicate  details  than  prose;  but  the  details  are  not 
poetical  because  they  are  more  delicate,  but  because 

entering  into  the  mind  of  a  supposed  person.  Next,  take  an  instance 
of  the  actual  feeling  truly  experienced  and  simply  expressed  by  a 
real  person. 

"Nothing  surprised  me  more  than  a  woman  of  Argentiere,  whose 
cottage  1  went  into  to  ask  for  milk,  as  I  came  down  from  the  glacier 
of  Argentiere,  in  the  month  of  March,  1764.  An  epidemic  dysentery 
had  prevailed  in  the  village,  and,  a  few  months  before,  had  taken 
away  from  her,  her  father,  her  husband,  and  her  brothers,  so  that  she 
was  left  alone,  with  three  children  in  the  cradle.  Her  face  had  some- 
thing noble  in  it,  and  its  expression  bore  the  seal  of  a  calm  and  pro- 
found sorrow.  After  ha^^ng  given  me  milk,  she  asked  me  whence  I 
came,  and  what  I  came  there  to  do,  so  early  in  the  year.  When  she 
knew  that  I  was  of  Geneva,  she  said  to  me,  'she  could  not  believe 
that  all  Protestants  were  lost  souls;  that  there  were  many  honest 
people  among  us,  and  that  God  was  too  good  and  too  great  to  con- 
demn all  without  distinction.'  Then,  after  a  moment  of  reflection, 
she  added,  in  shaking  her  head,  'But  that  which  is  very  strange  is 
that  of  so  many  who  have  gone  away,  none  have  ever  returned.  I,' 
she  added,  with  an  expression  of  grief,  'who  have  so  mourned  my 
husband  and  my  brothers,  who  have  never  ceased  to  think  of  them, 
who  every  night  conjure  them  with  beseechings  to  tell  me  where  they 
are,  and  in  what  state  they  are!  Ah,  surely,  if  they  lived  anj^where, 
they  would  not  leave  me  thus!  But,  perhaps,'  she  added,  'I  am  not 
worthy  of  this  kindness,  perhaps  the  pure  and  innocent  spirits  of 
these  children,'  and  she  looked  at  the  cradle,  'may  have  their  pre- 
sence, and  the  joy  which  is  denied  to  me.' "  —  Saussuee,  Voyages 
dans  les  Alpes,  chap.  xxiv. 

This  we  do  not  call  Poetry,  merely  because  it  is  not  invented,  but 
the  true  utterance  of  a  real  person.   [Ruskin.] 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  35 

they  are  employed  so  as  to  bring  out  an  affecting  result. 
For  instance,  no  one  but  a  true  poet  would  have  thought 
of  exciting  our  pity  for  a  bereaved  father  by  describing 
his  way  of  locking  the  door  of  his  house : 

Perhaps  to  himself  at  that  moment  he  said. 
The  key  I  must  take,  for  my  Ellen  is  dead; 
But  of  this  in  my  ears  not  a  word  did  he  speak; 
And  he  went  to  the  chase  with  a  tear  on  his  cheek. ^ 

In  like  manner,  in  painting,  it  is  altogether  impossible 
to  say  beforehand  what  details  a  great  painter  may 
make  poetical  by  his  use  of  them  to  excite  noble  emo- 
tions: and  we  shall,  therefore,  find  presently  that  a 
painting  is  to  be  classed  in  the  great  or  inferior  schools, 
not  according  to  the  kind  of  details  which  it  repre- 
sents, but  according  to  the  uses  for  which  it  employs 
them. 

It  is  only  farther  to  be  noticed,  that  infinite  confusion 
has  been  introduced  into  this  subject  by  the  careless  and 
illogical  custom  of  opposing  painting  to  poetry,  instead 
of  regarding  poetry  as  consisting  in  a  noble  use,  whether 
of  colours  or  words.  Painting  is  properly  to  be  opposed 
to  speaking  or  writing,  but  not  to  poetry.  Both  paint- 
ing and  speaking  are  methods  of  expression.  Poetry  is 
the  employment  of  either  for  the  noblest  purposes. 

This  question  being  thus  far  determined,  we  may 
proceed  with  our  paper  in  the  Idler. 

"  It  is  very  difficult  to  determine  the  exact  degree  of 
enthusiasm  that  the  arts  of  Painting  and  Poetry  may 
admit.  There  may,  perhaps,  be  too  great  indulgence  as 
well  as  too  great  a  restraint  of  imagination ;  if  the  one 
produces  incoherent  monsters,  the  other  produces  what 
is  full  as  bad,  lifeless  insipidity.  An  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  passions,  and  good  sense,  but  not  common  sense, 
^  The  closing  lines  of  Wordsworth's  Childless  Father. 


36  MODERN   PAINTERS 

must  at  last  determine  its  limits.  It  has  been  thouerht, 
and  I  believe  witli  reason,  that  Michael  Angelo  some- 
times transgressed  those  limits;  and,  I  think,  I  have 
seen  figures  of  him  of  which  it  was  very  difficult  to 
determine  whether  they  were  in  the  highest  degree 
sublime  or  extremely  ridiculous.  Such  faults  may  be 
said  to  be  the  ebullitions  of  genius ;  but  at  least  he  had 
this  merit,  that  he  never  was  insipid;  and  whatever 
passion  his  works  may  excite,  they  will  always  escape 
contempt. 

"What  I  have  had  under  consideration  is  the  sub- 
limest  style,  particularly  that  of  Michael  Angelo,  the 
Homer  of  painting.  Other  kinds  may  admit  of  this 
naturalness,  which  of  the  low^est  kind  is  the  chief  merit ; 
but  in  painting,  as  in  poetry,  the  highest  style  has  the 
least  of  common  nature." 

From  this  passage  we  gather  three  important  indica- 
tions of  the  supposed  nature  of  the  Great  Style.  That 
it  is  the  work  of  men  in  a  state  of  enthusiasm.  That  it  is 
like  the  writing  of  Homer;  and  that  it  has  as  Httle  as 
possible  of  "common  nature"  in  it. 

First,  it  is  produced  by  men  in  a  state  of  enthusiasm. 

That  is,  by  men  who  feel  strongly  and  nobly  ;  for  we  do 

not  call  a  strong  feeling  of  envy,  jealousy,  or  ambition, 

enthusiasm.  That  is,  therefore,  by  men  who  feel  poet- 

ically.   This  much  we  may  admit,  I  think,  with  perfect 

//safety.   Great  art  is  produced  by  men  who  feel  acutely 

y/   and  nobly;  and  it  is  in  some  sort  an  expression  of  this 

'         personal  feeling.  We  can  easily  conceive  that  there  may 

be  a  sufficiently  marked  distinction  between  such  art, 

and  that  which  is  produced  by  men  who  do  not  feel  at 

all,  but  who  reproduce,  though  ever  so  accurately,  yet 

coldly,  like  human  mirrors,  the  scenes  which  pass  before 

their  eyes. 


THE    GRAND    STYLE  37 

Secondly,  Great  Art  is  like  the  writing  of  Homer,  and 
this  chiefly  because  it  has  little  of  "  common  nature  "  in 
it.  We  are  not  clearly  informed  what  is  meant  by  com- 
mon nature  in  this  passage.  Homer  seems  to  describe 
a  great  deal  of  what  is  common:  —  cookery,  for  in- 
stance, very  carefully  in  all  its  processes.^  I  suppose  the 
passage  in  the  Iliad  which,  on  the  whole,  has  excited 
most  admiration,  is  that  which  describes  a  wife's  sor- 
row at  parting  from  her  husband,  and  a  child's  fright 
at  its  father's  helmet;^  and  I  hope,  at  least, the  former 
feeling  may  be  considered  "  common  nature."  But  the 
true  greatness  of  Homer's  style  is,  doubtless,  held  by 
our  author  to  consist  in  his  imaginations  of  things  not 
only  uncommon  but  impossible  (such  as  spirits  in 
brazen  armour,  or  monsters  with  heads  of  men  and 
bodies  of  beasts),  and  in  his  occasional  delineations 
of  the  human  character  and  form  in  their  utmost,  or 
heroic,  strength  and  beauty.  We  gather  then  on  the 
whole,  that  a  painter  in  the  Great  Style  must  be  enthu- 
siastic, or  full  of  emotion,  and  must  paint  the  human 
form  in  its  utmost  strength  and  beauty,  and  perhaps 
certain  impossible  forms  besides,  liable  by  persons  not 
in  an  equally  enthusiastic  state  of  mind  to  be  looked 
upon  as  in  some  degree  absurd.  This  I  presume  to  be 
Reynolds's  meaning,  and  to  be  all  that  he  intends  us  to 
gather  from  his  comparison  of  the  Great  Style  with  the 
writings  of  Homer.  But  if  that  comparison  be  a  just 
one  in  all  respects,  surely  two  other  corollaries  ought  to 
be  drawn  from  it,  namely,  —  first,  that  these  Heroic  or 
Impossible  images  are  to  be  mingled  with  others  very 
unheroic  and  very  possible;  and,  secondly,  that  in  the 
representation  of  the  Heroic  or  Impossible  forms,  the 

^  Iliad,  1.  463  ff.,  2.  425  ff.;  Odyssey,  3.  455  ff.,  etc. 
2  Iliad,  6.  468  ff. 


S8  MODERN   PAINTERS 

greatest  care  must  be  taken  in  finishing  the  details^  so 
that  a  painter  must  not  be  satisfied  with  painting  well 
the  countenance  and  the  body  of  his  hero,  but  ought  to 
spend  the  greatest  part  of  his  time  (as  Homer  the  great- 
est number  of  verses)  in  elaborating  the  sculptured  pat- 
tern on  his  shield. 

Let  us,  however,  proceed  with  our  paper. 

*'  One  may  very  safely  recommend  a  little  more  enthu- 
siasm to  the  modern  Painters ;  too  much  is  certainly  not 
the  vice  of  the  present  age.  The  Italians  seem  to  have 
been  continually  decHning  in  this  respect,  from  the  time 
of  Michael  Angelo  to  that  of  Carlo  Maratti,^  and  from 
thence  to  the  very  bathos  of  insipidity  to  which  they  are 
now  sunk ;  so  that  there  is  no  need  of  remarking,  that 
where  I  mentioned  the  Italian  painters  in  opposition  to 
the  Dutch,  I  mean  not  the  moderns,  but  the  heads  of  the 
old  Roman  and  Bolognian  schools ;  nor  did  I  mean  to 
include,  in  my  idea  of  an  Italian  painter,  the  Venetian 
school,  which  may  he  said  to  he  the  Dutch  'part  of  the 
Italian  genius.  I  have  only  to  add  a  word  of  advice  to 
the  Painters,  —  that,  however  excellent  they  may  be 
in  painting  naturally,  they  would  not  flatter  themselves 
very  much  upon  it ;  and  to  the  Connoisseurs,  that  when 
they  see  a  cat  or  a  fiddle  painted  so  finely,  that,  as  the 
phrase  is,  it  looks  as  if  you  could  take  it  up,  they  would 
not  for  that  reason  immediately  compare  the  Painter 
to  Raffaelle  and  Michael  Angelo." 

In  this  passage  there  are  four  points  chiefly  to  be 
remarked.  The  first,  that  in  the  year  1759  the  Italian 
painters  were,  in  our  author's  opinion,  sunk  in  the  very 
bathos  of  insipidity.  The  second,  that  the  Venetian 
painters,  i.  e.  Titian,  Tintoret,  and  Veronese,  are,  in 
our  author's  opinion,  to  be  classed  with  the  Dutch ;  that 
1  1625-1713.   Known  also  a^  Carlo  delle  Madonne. 


OF   REALIZATION  89 

is  to  say,  are  painters  in  a  style  "in  which  the  slowest 
intellect  is  always  sure  to  succeed  best."  Thirdly,  that 
painting  naturally  is  not  a  difficult  thing,  nor  one  on 
which  a  painter  should  pride  himself.  And,  finally, 
that  connoisseurs,  seeing  a  cat  or  a  fiddle  successfully 
painted,  ought  not  therefore  immediately  to  compare 
the  painter  to  Raphael  or  Michael  Angelo. 

Yet  Raphael  painted  fiddles  very  carefully  in  the 
foreground  of  his  St.  Cecilia,  —  so  carefully,  that  they 
quite  look  as  if  they  might  be  taken  up.  So  carefully, 
that  I  never  yet  looked  at  the  picture  without  wishing 
that  somebody  would  take  them  up,  and  out  of  the  way. 
And  I  am  under  a  very  strong  persuasion  that  Raphael 
did  not  think  painting  "  naturally "  an  easy  thing.  It 
will  be  well  to  examine  into  this  point  a  little;  and  for 
the  present,  with  the  reader's  permission,  we  will  pass 
over  the  first  two  statements  in  this  passage  (touching 
the  character  of  Italian  art  in  1759,  and  of  Venetian  art 
in  general),  and  immediately  examine  some  of  the  evi- 
dence existing  as  to  the  real  dignity  of  "  natural "  paint- 
ing —  that  is  to  say,  of  painting  carried  to  the  point  at 
which  it  reaches  a  deceptive  appearance  of  reality. 


OF  REALIZATION 

Volume  III,  Chapter  2 

In  the  outset  of  this  inquiry,  the  reader  must  thor- 
oughly understand  that  we  are  not  now  considering     j 
what  is  to  be  painted,  but  how  far  it  is  to  be  painted.    K 
Not  whether  Raphael  does  right  in  representing  angels    \ 
playing  upon  violins,or  whether  Veronese  does  right  in 
allowing  cats  and  monkeys  to  join  the  company  of  kings : 
but  whether,  supposing  the  subjects  rightly  chosen. 


40  MODERN   PAINTERS 

they  ouc^ht  on  the  canvas  to  look  like  real  angels  with 
real  violins,  and  substantial  cats  looking  at  veritable 
kings;  or  only  like  imaginary  angels  with  soundless 
violins,  ideal  cats,  and  unsubstantial  kings. 

Now,  from  the  first  moment  when  painting  began  to 
be  a  subject  of  literary  inquiry  and  general  criticism,  I 
cannot  remember  any  writer,  not  professedly  artistical, 
who  has  not,  more  or  less,  in  one  part  of  his  book  or 
another,  countenanced  the  idea  that  the  great  end  of  art 
is  to  produce  a  deceptive  resemblance  of  reality.  It  may 
be,  indeed,  that  we  shall  find  the  writers,  through  many 
pages,  explaining  principles  of  ideal  beauty,  and  pro- 
fessing great  delight  in  the  evidences  of  imagination. 
But  whenever  a  picture  is  to  be  definitely  described, — 
whenever  the  writer  desires  to  convey  to  others  some 
impression  of  an  extraordinary  excellence,  all  praise  is 
wound  up  with  some  such  statements  as  these :  "  It 
was  so  exquisitely  painted  that  you  expected  the  figures 
to  move  and  speak ;  you  approached  the  flowers  to  enjoy 
their  smell,  and  stretched  your  hand  towards  the  fruit 
which  had  fallen  from  the  branches.  You  shrunk  back 
lest  the  sword  of  the  warrior  should  indeed  descend, 
and  turned  away  your  head  that  you  might  not  witness 
the  agonies  of  the  expiring  martyr." 

In  a  large  number  of  instances,  language  such  as  this 
will  be  found  to  be  merely  a  clumsy  effort  to  convey  to 
others  a  sense  of  the  admiration,  of  which  the  writer 
does  not  understand  the  real  cause  in  himself.  A  person 
is  attracted  to  a  picture  by  the  beauty  of  its  colour,  in- 
terested by  the  Hveiiness  of  its  story,  and  touched  by 
certain  countenances  or  details  which  remind  him  of 
friends  whom  he  loved,  or  scenes  in  which  he  delighted. 
He  naturally  supposes  that  what  gives  him  so  much 
pleasure  must  be  a  notable  example  of  the  painter's 


OF    REALIZATION  41 

skill ;  but  he  is  ashamed  to  confess,  or  perhaps  does  not 
know,  that  he  is  so  much  a  child  as  to  be  fond  of  bright 
colours  and  amusing  incidents ;  and  he  is  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  associations  which  have  so  secret  and 
inevitable  a  power  over  his  heart.  He  casts  about  for 
the  cause  of  his  delight,  and  can  discover  no  other  than 
that  he  thought  the  picture  like  reality. 

In  another,  perhaps,  a  still  larger  number  of  cases, 
such  language  will  be  found  to  be  that  of  simple  igno- 
rance —  the  ignorance  of  persons  whose  position  in  life 
compels  them  to  speak  of  art,  without  having  any  real 
enjoyment  of  it.  It  is  inexcusably  required  from  people 
of  the  world,  that  they  should  see  merit  in  Claudes  ^  and 
Titians;  and  the  only  merit  which  many  persons  can 
either  see  or  conceive  in  them  is,  that  they  must  be 
"like  nature." 

In  other  cases,  the  deceptive  power  of  the  art  is  really 
felt  to  be  a  source  of  interest  and  amusement.  This  is 
the  case  with  a  large  number  of  the  collectors  of  Dutch 
pictures.  They  enjoy  seeing  what  is  flat  made  to  look 
round,  exactly  as  a  child  enjoys  a  trick  of  legerdemain  : 
they  rejoice  in  flies  which  the  spectator  vainly  attempts 
to  brush  away,^  and  in  dew  which  he  endeavours  to  dry 
by  putting  the  picture  in  the  sun.  They  take  it  for  the 
greatest  compliment  to  their  treasures  that  they  should 
be  mistaken  for  windows;  and  think  the  parting  of 
Abraham  and  Hagar  adequately  represented  if  Hagar 
seems  to  be  really  crying.^ 

^  Claude  Gelee  [1600-82],  usually  called  Claude  Loirain,  a  French 
landscape  painter  and  etcher. 

^  Vasari,  in  his  Lives  of  the  Painters,  tells  how  Giotto,  when  a 
student  under  Cimabue,  once  painted  a  fly  on  the  nose  of  a  fitrure  on 
which  the  master  was  working,  the  fly  beinn;  so  realistic  that  Cima- 
bue on  returninfj  to  the  paintin<;;  attempted  to  brush  it  away. 

^  Guerciuo's  Hagar  in  the  Brera  gallery  in  Milan. 


42  MODERN   PAINTERS 

It  is  against  critics  and  connoisseurs  of  this  latter 
stamp  (of  wliom,  in  the  year  1750,  the  juries  of  art  were 
for  the  most  part  composed)  that  the  essay  of  Reynolds, 
which  we  have  been  examining,  was  justly  directed. 
But  Reynolds  had  not  sufficiently  considered  that 
neither  the  men  of  this  class,  nor  of  the  two  other 
classes  above  described,  constitute  the  entire  body  of 
those  who  praise  Art  for  its  realization;  and  that  the 
holding  of  this  apparently  shallow  and  vulgar  opinion 
cannot,  in  all  cases,  be  attributed  to  the  want  either 
of  penetration,  sincerity,  or  sense.  The  collectors  of 
Gerard  Dows  and  Hobbimas  may  be  passed  by  with  a 
smile ;  and  the  affectations  of  Walpole  and  simplicities 
of  Vasari  ^  dismissed  with  contempt  or  with  compas- 
sion. But  very  different  men  from  these  have  held  pre- 
cisely the  same  language;  and,  one  amongst  the  rest, 
whose  authority  is  absolutely,  and  in  all  points,  over- 
whelming. 

There  was  probably  never  a  period  in  which  the  influ- 
ence of  art  over  the  minds  of  men  seemed  to  depend  less 
on  its  merely  imitative  power,  than  the  close  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  No  painting  or  sculpture  at  that 
time  reached  more  than  a  rude  resemblance  of  reality. 
Its  despised  perspective,  imperfect  chiaroscuro,  and 
unrestrained  flights  of  fantastic  imagination,  separated 
the  artist's  work  from  nature  by  an  interval  which  there 
was  no  attempt  to  disguise,  and  little  to  diminish.  And 
yet,  at  this  very  peri od,JJie  greatest  poet  of  that,  or 
perhaps  of  any  other  age,  and  the  attached  friend  of  its 
greatest  painter,^  who  must  over  and  over  again  have 

*  Gerard  Dow  [1613-75],  a  Dutch  genre  painter;  Hobbima  [1G38- 
1709],  a  Dutch  landscape  painter;  Walpole  [1717-97],  a  famous 
English  litterateur;  Vasari  [1511-74],  an  Italian  painter,  now  con- 
sidered full  of  mannerisms  and  without  originality,  mainly  famous 
as  author  of  The  Lives  of  the  Painters. 

2  Giotto. 


OF    REALIZATION  43 

held  full  and  free  conversation  with  him  respecting  the 
objects  of  his  art,  speaks  in  the  following  terms  of 
painting,  supposed  to  be  carried  to  its  highest  perfec- 
tion: 

Qual  di  pennel  fu  maestro,  e  di  stile 
Che  ritraesse  I'  ombre,  e  i  tratti,  ch'  ivi 
Mirar  farieno  uno  ingegno  sottile? 

Morti  li  morti,  e  i  vivi  parean  vivi: 
Non  vide  me'  di  me,  chi  vide  il  vero, 
Quant'  io  calcai,  fin  che  chinato  givi. 

Dante,  Purgatorio,  canto  xii.  1.  64. 

"What  master  of  the  pencil,  or  the  style. 

Had  traced  the  shades  and  lines  that  might  have  made 

The  subtlest  workman  wonder  ?    Dead,  the  dead. 

The  living  seemed  alive  ;  with  clearer  view 

His  eye  beheld  not,  who  beheld  the  truth. 

Than  mine  what  I  did  tread  on,  while  I  went 

Low  bending.  —  Cary. 

Dante  has  here  clearly  no  other  idea  of  the  highest 
art  than  that  it  should  bring  back,  as  in  a  mirror  or 
vision,  the  aspect  of  things  passed  or  absent.  The 
scenes  of  which  he  speaks  are,  on  the  pavement,  for 
ever  represented  by  angelic  power,  so  that  the  souls 
which  traverse  this  circle  of  the  rock  may  see  them,  as 
if  the  years  of  the  world  had  been  rolled  back,  and  they 
again  stood  beside  the  actors  in  the  moment  of  action. 
Nor  do  I  think  that  Dante's  authority  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  compel  us  to  admit  that  such  art  as  this 
might,  indeed,  be  the  highest  possible.  Whatever  de- 
light we  may  have  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  in  pic- 
tures, if  it  were  but  truly  offered  to  us,  to  remove  at  our 
will  the  canvas  from  the  frame,  and  in  lieu  of  it  to 
behold,  fixed  for  ever,  the  image  of  some  of  those  mighty 
scenes  which  it  has  been  our  way  to  make  mere  themes 


44  MODERN    PAINTERS 

for  the  artist's  fancy;  if,  for  instance,  we  could  again 
bclioiJ  the  Magdalene  receiving  her  pardon  at  Christ's 
feet,  or  the  disciples  sitting  with  Him  at  the  table  of 
Emmaus ;  and  this  not  feebly  nor  fancifully,  but  as  if 
some  silver  mirror  that  had  leaned  against  the  wall  of 
the  chamber,  had  been  miraculously  commanded  to 
retain  for  ever  the  colours  that  had  jflashed  upon  it  for 
an  instant,  —  would  we  not  part  with  our  picture  — 
Titian's  or  Veronese's  though  it  might  be? 

Yes,  the  reader  answers,  in  the  instance  of  such 
scenes  as  these,  but  not  if  the  scene  represented  were 
uninteresting.  Not,  indeed,  if  it  were  utterly  vulgar  or 
painful;  but  we  are  not  yet  certain  that  the  art  which 
represents  what  is  vulgar  or  painful  is  itself  of  much 
value ;  and  with  respect  to  the  art  whose  aim  is  beauty, 
even  of  an  inferior  order,  it  seems  that  Dante's  idea  of 
its  perfection  has  still  much  evidence  in  its  favour.  For 
among  persons  of  native  good  sense,  and  courage 
enough  to  speak  their  minds,  we  shall  often  find  a  con- 
siderable degree  of  doubt  as  to  the  use  of  art,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  habitual  comparison  of  it  with  reality. 
*'  What  is  the  use,  to  me,  of  the  painted  landscape  1^ " 
they  will  ask :  "I  see  more  beautiful  and  perfect  land- 
scapes every  day  of  my  life  in  my  forenoon  walk." 
*'  What  is  the  use,  to  me,  of  the  painted  effigy  of  hero  or 
beauty  .^  I  can  see  a  stamp  of  higher  heroism,  and  light 
of  purer  beauty,  on  the  faces  round  me,  utterly  in- 
expressible by  the  highest  human  skill."  Now,  it  is 
evident  that  to  persons  of  this  temper  the  only  valu- 
able picture  would,  indeed,  be  mirrors,  reflecting  per- 
manently the  images  of  the  things  in  which  they  took 
delight,  and  of  the  faces  that  they  loved.  "Nay,"  but 
the  reader  interrupts  (if  he  is  of  the  Idealist  school),  "  I 
deny  that  more  beautiful  things  are  to  be  seen  in  nature 


OF   REALIZATION  45 

than  in  art;  on  the  contrary,  everything  in  nature  is 
faulty,  and  art  represents  nature  as  perfected."  Be  it 
so.  Must,  therefore,  this  perfected  nature  be  imperfectly 
represented  ?  Is  it  absolutely  required  of  the  painter, 
who  has  conceived  perfection,  that  he  should  so  paint 
it  as  to  look  only  like  a  picture  ?  Or  is  not  Dante's  view 
of  the  matter  right  even  here,  and  would  it  not  be  well 
that  the  perfect  conception  of  Pallas  should  be  so  given 
as  to  look  like  Pallas  herself,  rather  than  merely  like  the 
picture  of  Pallas  ?  ^ 

It  is  not  easy  for  us  to  answer  this  question  rightly, 
owing  to  the  difficulty  of  imagining  any  art  which 
should  reach  the  perfection  supposed.  Our  actual 
powers  of  imitation  are  so  feeble  that  wherever  decep- 
tion is  attempted,  a  subject  of  a  comparatively  low  or 
confined  order  must  be  chosen.  I  do  not  enter  at  pre- 
sent into  the  inquiry  how  far  the  powers  of  imitation 
extend;  but  assuredly  up  to  the  present  period  they 
have  been  so  limited  that  it  is  hardly  possible  for  us  to 
conceive  a  deceptive  art  embracing  a  high  range  of  sub- 
ject. But  let  the  reader  make  the  effort,  and  consider 
seriously  what  he  would  give  at  any  moment  to  have 
the  power  of  arresting  the  fairest  scenes,  those  which  so 
often  rise  before  him  only  to  vanish ;  to  stay  the  cloud  in 
its  fading,  the  leaf  in  its  trembling,  and  the  shadows  in 
their  changing ;  to  bid  the  fitful  foam  be  fixed  upon  the 
river,  and  the  ripples  be  everlasting  upon  the  lake ;  and 
then  to  bear  away  with  him  no  darkened  or  feeble  sun- 
stain  (though  even  that  is  beautiful),  but  a  counterfeit 
which  should  seem  no  counterfeit — the  true  and  perfect 
image  of  life  indeed.  Or  rather  (for  the  full  majesty  of 
such  a  power  is  not  thus  sufficiently  expressed)  let  him 
consider  that  it  would  be  in  effect  nothing  else  than  a 
^  Purgatorio,  12.  31. 


46  MODERN    PAINTERS 

capacity  of  transporting  himself  at  any  moment  into 
any  scene  —  a  gift  as  great  as  can  be  possessed  by  a  dis- 
embodied spirit:  and  suppose,  also,  this  necromancy 
embracing  not  only  the  present  but  the  past,  and  en- 
abling us  seemingly  to  enter  into  the  very  bodily  pre- 
sence of  men  long  since  gathered  to  the  dust ;  to  behold 
them  in  act  as  they  lived,  but  — with  greater  privilege 
than  ever  was  granted  to  the  companions  of  those 
transient  acts  of  life  —  to  see  them  fastened  at  our  will 
in  the  gesture  and  expression  of  an  instant,  and  stayed, 
on  the  eve  of  some  great  deed,  in  immortality  of  burn- 
ing purpose.  Conceive,  so  far  as  it  is  possible,  such 
power  as  this,  and  then  say  whether  the  art  which  con- 
ferred it  is  to  be  spoken  lightly  of,  or  whether  we  should 
not  rather  reverence,  as  half  divine,  a  gift  which  would 
go  so  far  as  to  raise  us  into  the  rank,  and  invest  us  with 
the  felicities,  of  angels  ? 

Yet  such  would  imitative  art  be  in  its  perfection. 
Not  by  any  means  an  easy  thing,  as  Reynolds  supposes 
it.  Far  from  being  easy,  it  is  so  utterly  beyond  all  hu- 
man power  that  we  have  difficulty  even  in  conceiving 
its  nature  or  results  —  the  best  art  we  as  yet  possess 
comes  so  far  short  of  it. 

But  we  must  not  rashly  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
such  art  would,  indeed,  be  the  highest  possible.  There 
is  rnuch  To  be  considered  hereafter  on  the  other  side; 
the  only  conclusion  we  are  as  yet  warranted  in  forming 
is,  that  Reynolds  had  no  right  to  speak  lightly  or  con- 
temptuously of  imitative  art;  that  in  fact,  when  he  did 
so,  he  had  not  conceived  its  entire  nature,  but  was 
thinking  of  some  vulgar  conditions  of  it,  which  were  the 
only  ones  known  to  him,  and  that,  therefore,  his  whole 
endeavour  to  explain  the  difference  between  great  and 
mean  art  has  been  disappointed ;  that  he  has  involved 


OF   REALIZATION  47 

himself  in  a  crowd  of  theories,  whose  issue  he  had  not 
foreseen,  and  committed  himself  to  conclusions  which 
he  never  intended.  There  is  an  instinctive  conscious- 
ness in  his  own  mind  of  the  difference  between  high  and 
low  art ;  but  he  is  utterly  incapable  of  explaining  it,  and 
every  effort  which  he  makes  to  do  so  involves  him  in 
unexpected  fallacy  and  absurdity.  It  is  not  true  that 
Poetry  does  not  concern  herself  with  minute  details.  It 
is  not  true  that  high  art  seeks  only  the  Invariable.  It  is 
not  true  that  imitative  art  is  an  easy  thing.  It  is  not  true 
that  the  faithful  rendering  of  nature  is  an  employment 
in  which  *'  the  slowest  intellect  is  Hkely  to  succeed  best." 
All  these  successive  assertions  are  utterly  false  and  un- 
tenable, while  the  plain  truth,  a  truth  lying  at  the  very 
door,  has  all  the  while  escaped  him,  —  that  which  was 
incidentally  stated  in  the  preceding  chapter, —  namely, 
that  the  difference  between  great  and  mean  art  lies,  not 
in  definable  methods  of  handling,  or  styles  of  represen- 
tation, or  choices  of  subjects,  but  wholly  in  the  noble- 
ness of  the  end  to  which  the  effort  of  the  painter  is  ad- 
dressed. We  cannot  say  that  a  painter  is  great  because 
he  paints  boldly,  or  paints  delicately;  because  he  gen- 
eralizes or  particularizes;  because  he  loves  detail,  or 
because  he  disdains  it.  He  is  great  if,  by  any  of  these 
means,  he  has  laid  open  noble  truths,  or  aroused  noble 
emotions.  It  does  not  matter  whether  he  paint  the  petal 
of  a  rose,  or  the  chasms  of  a  precipice,  so  that  Love  and 
Admiration  attend  him  as  he  labours,  and  wait  for  ever 
upon  his  work.  It  does  not  matter  whether  he  toil  for 
months  upon  a  few  inches  of  his  canvas,  or  cover  a 
palace  front  with  colour  in  a  day,  so  only  that  it  be  with 
a  solemn  purpose  that  he  has  filled  his  heart  with  pa- 
tience, or  urged  his  hand  to  haste.  And  it  does  not  mat- 
ter whether  he  seek  for  his  subjects  among  peasants  or 


48  MODERN   PAINTERS 

nol)les,  amono^  the  heroic  or  the  simple,  in  courts  or  in 
fields,  so  only  that  he  behold  all  tilings  with  a  thirst  for 
beauty,  and  a  hatred  of  meanness  and  vice.  There  are, 
indeed,  certain  methods  of  representation  which  are 
usually  adopted  by  the  most  active  minds,  and  certain 
characters  of  subject  usually  delighted  in  by  the  noblest 
hearts;  but  it  is  quite  possible,  quite  easy,  to  adopt  the 
manner  of  painting  without  sharing  the  activity  of 
mind,  and  to  imitate  the  choice  of  subject  without  pos- 
sessing the  nobility  of  spirit;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  altogether  impossible  to  foretell  on  what  strange 
objects  the  strength  of  a  great  man  will  sometimes  be 
concentrated,  or  by  what  strange  means  he  will  some- 
times express  himself.  So  that  true  criticism  of  art  never 
can  consist  in  the  mere  application  of  rules;  it  can  be 
just  only  when  it  is  founded  on  quick  sympathy  with 
the  innumerable  instincts  and  changeful  efforts  of 
human  nature,  chastened  and  guided  by  unchanging 
love  of  all  things  that  God  has  created  to  be  beautiful, 
and  pronounced  to  be  good. 

OF  THE  NOVELTY  OF  LANDSCAPE 
Volume  III,  Chapter  U 

Having  now  obtained,  I  trust,  clear  ideas,  up  to  a 
certain  point,  of  what  is  generally  right  and  wrong  in  all 
art,  both  in  conception  and  in  workmanship,  we  have  Uf 
apply  these  laws  of  right  to  the  particular  branch  of  art 
which  is  the  subject  of  our  present  inquiry,  namely, 
landscape-painting.  Respecting  which,  after  the  vari- 
ous meditations  into  which  we  have  been  led  on  the 
high  duties  and  ideals  of  art,  it  may  not  improbably 
occur  to  us  first  to  ask,  —  whether  it  be  worth  inquir- 
ing about  at  all. 


OF  THE   NOVELTY  OF   LANDSCAPE        49 

That  question,  perhaps  the  reader  thinks,  should 
have  been  asked  and  answered  before  I  had  written,  or 
he  read,  two  volumes  and  a  half  about  it.  So  I  had 
answered  it,  in  my  own  mind  ;  but  it  seems  time  now  to 
give  the  grounds  for  this  answer.  If,  indeed,  the  reader 
has  never  suspected  that  landscape-painting  was  any- 
thing but  good,  right,  and  healthy  work,  I  should  be 
sorry  to  put  any  doubt  of  its  being  so  into  his  mind  ;  but 
if,  as  seems  to  me  more  likely,  he,  living  in  this  busy  and 
perhaps  somewhat  calamitous  age,  has  some  suspicion 
that  landscape-painting  is  but  an  idle  and  empty  busi- 
ness, not  worth  all  our  long  talk  about  it,  then,  perhaps, 
he  will  be  pleased  to  have  such  suspicion  done  away, 
before  troubling  himself  farther  with  these  disquisi- 
tions. 

I  should  rather  be  glad,  than  otherwise,  that  he  had 
formed  some  suspicion  on  this  matter.  If  he  has  at  all 
admitted  the  truth  of  anything  hitherto  said  respecting 
great  art,  and  its  choices  of  subject,  it  .seems  to  me 
he  ought,  by  this  time,  to  be  questioning  with  himself 
whether  road-side  weeds,  old  cottages,  broken  stones, 
and  such  other  materials,  be  worthy  matters  for  grave 
men  to  busy  themselves  in  the  imitation  of.  And  I 
should  like  him  to  probe  this  doubt  to  the  deep  of  it, 
and  bring  all  his  misgivings  out  to  the  broad  light, 
that  we  may  see  how  we  are  to  deal  with  them,  or  as- 
certain if  indeed  they  are  too  well  founded  to  be  dealt 
with. 

And  to  this  end  I  would  ask  him  now  to  imagine  him- 
self entering,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  room  of 
the  Old  Water-Colour  Society  :  ^  and  to  suppose  that  he 

*  The  Society  of  Painters  in  Water-Colours,  often  referred  to  as 
the  Old  Water-Colour  Society.  Ruskin  was  elected  an  honorary 
member  in  1873. 


60  MODERN    PAINTERS 

has  entered  it,  not  for  the  sake  of  a  quiet  examination  of 
the  paintings  one  by  one,  but  in  order  to  seize  such 
ideas  as  it  may  generally  suggest  respecting  the  state 
and  meaning  of  modern,  as  compared  with  elder,  art. 
I  suppose  him,  of  course,  that  he  may  be  capable  of 
such  a  comparison,  to  be  in  some  degree  familiar  with 
the  different  forms  in  which  art  has  developed  itself 
within  the  periods  historically  known  to  us;  but  never, 
till  that  moment,  to  have  seen  any  completely  modern 
work.  So  prepared,  and  so  unprepared,  he  would,  as 
his  ideas  began  to  arrange  themselves,  be  first  struck 
by  the  number  of  paintings  representing  blue  moun- 
tains, clear  lakes,  and  ruined  castles  or  cathedrals,  and 
he  would  say  to  himself :  "  There  is  something  strange 
in  the  mind  of  these  modern  people !  Nobody  ever  cared 
about  blue  mountains  before,  or  tried  to  paint  the 
broken  stones  of  old  walls."  And  the  more  he  con- 
sidered the  subject,  the  more  he  would  feel  the  pecul- 
iarity; and,  as  he  thought  over  the  art  of  Greeks  and 
Romans,  he  would  still  repeat,  with  increasing  certainty 
of  conviction  :  "  Mountains !  I  remember  none.  The 
Greeks  did  not  seem,  as  artists,  to  know  that  such 
things  were  in  the  world.  They  carved,  or  variously 
represented,  men,  and  horses,  and  beasts,  and  birds, 
and  all  kinds  of  living  creatures,  —  yes,  even  down  to 
cuttle-fish ;  and  trees,  in  a  sort  of  way ;  but  not  so  much 
as  the  outline  of  a  mountain;  and  as  for  lakes,  they 
merely  showed  they  knew  the  difference  between  salt 
and  fresh  water  by  the  fish  they  put  into  each."  Then 
he  would  pass  on  to  mediaeval  art ;  and  still  he  would  be 
obliged  to  repeat:  "Mountains!  I  remember  none. 
Some  careless  and  jagged  arrangements  of  blue  spires 
or  spikes  on  the  horizon,  and,  here  and  there,  an  at- 
tempt at  representing  an  overhanging  rock  with  a  hole 


OF  THE  NOVELTY  OF  LANDSCAPE         51 

through  it;  but  merely  in  order  to  divide  the  light 
behind  some  human  figure.  Lakes !  No,  nothing  of  the 
kind,  —  only  blue  bays  of  sea  put  in  to  fill  up  the  back- 
ground when  the  painter  could  not  think  of  anything 
else.  Broken-down  buildings!  No;  for  the  most  part 
very  complete  and  well-appointed  buildings,  if  any ;  and 
never  buildings  at  all,  but  to  give  place  or  explanation 
to  some  circumstance  of  human  conduct."  And  then 
he  would  look  up  again  to  the  modern  pictures,  ob- 
serving, with  an  increasing  astonishment,  that  here  the 
human  interest  had,  in  many  cases,  altogether  disap- 
peared. That  mountains,  instead  of  being  used  only  as 
a  blue  ground  for  the  relief  of  the  heads  of  saints,  were 
themselves  the  exclusive  subjects  of  reverent  contem- 
plation ;  that  their  ravines,  and  peaks,  and  forests, 
were  all  painted  with  an  appearance  of  as  much  enthu- 
siasm as  had  formerly  been  devoted  to  the  dimple  of 
beauty,  or  the  frowns  of  asceticism;  and  that  all  the 
living  interest  which  was  still  supposed  necessary  to  the 
scene,  might  be  supplied  by  a  traveller  in  a  slouched  hat, 
a  beggar  in  a  scarlet  cloak,  or,  in  default  of  these,  even 
by  a  heron  or  a  wild  duck. 

And  if  he  could  entirely  divest  himself  of  his  own 
modern  habits  of  thought,  and  regard  the  subjects 
in  question  with  the  feelings  of  a  knight  or  monk  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  it  might  be  a  question  whether  those 
feelings  would  not  rapidly  verge  towards  contempt. 
"  What ! "  he  might  perhaps  mutter  to  himself,  "  here 
are  human  beings  spending  the  whole  of  their  lives  in 
making  pictures  of  bits  of  stone  and  runlets  of  water, 
withered  sticks  and  flying  fogs,  and  actually  not  a  pic- 
ture of  the  gods  or  the  heroes  !  none  of  the  saints  or  the 
martyrs !  none  of  the  angels  and  demons !  none  of 
councils  or  battles,  or  any  other  single  thing  worth  the 


52  MODERN    PAINTERS 

thought  of  a  man !  Trees  and  clouds  indeed !  as  if  I 
should  not  see  as  many  trees  as  I  cared  to  see,  and  more, 
in  the  first  half  of  my  day's  journey  to-morrow,  or  as  if 
it  mattered  to  any  man  whether  the  sky  were  clear  or 
cloudy,  so  long  as  his  armour  did  not  get  too  hot  in  the 
sun !" 

There  can  be  no  question  that  this  would  have  been 
somewhat  the  tone  of  thought  with  which  either  a 
Lacedaemonian,  a  soldier  of  Rome  in  her  strength,  or  a 
knight  of  the  thirteenth  century,  would  have  been  apt 
to  regard  these  particular  forms  of  our  present  art.  Nor 
can  there  be  any  question  that,  in  many  respects,  their 
judgment  would  have  been  just.  It  is  true  that  the 
indignation  of  the  Spartan  or  Roman  would  have  been 
equally  excited  against  any  appearance  of  luxurious 
industry;  but  the  mediaeval  knight  would,  to  the  full, 
have  admitted  the  nobleness  of  art ;  only  he  would  have 
had  it  employed  in  decorating  his  church  or  his  prayer- 
book,  not  in  imitating  moors  and  clouds.  And  the  feel- 
ings of  all  the  three  w^ould  have  agreed  in  this,  —  that 
their  main  ground  of  offence  must  have  been  the  w  ant 
of  seriousness  and  purpose  in  what  they  saw.  They 
would  all  have  admitted  the  nobleness  of  whatever  con- 
duced to  the  honour  of  the  gods,  or  the  power  of  the 
nation ;  but  they  would  not  have  understood  how  the 
skill  of  human  life  could  be  wisely  spent  in  that  which 
did  no  honour  either  to  Jupiter  or  to  the  Virgin ;  and 
which  in  no  wise  tended,  apparently,  either  to  the 
accumulation  of  wealth,  the  excitement  of  patriotism, 
or  the  advancement  of  morality. 

And  exactly  so  far  forth  their  judgment  w^ould  be 
just,  as  the  landscape-painting  could  indeed  be  shown, 
for  others  as  well  as  for  them,  to  be  art  of  this  nugatory 
kind ;  and  so  far  forth  unjust,  as  that  painting  could  be 


OF  THE  NOVELTY  OF  LANDSCAPE         53 

shown  to  depend  upon,  or  cultivate,  certain  sensibilities 
which  neither  the  Greek  nor  mediaeval  knight  pos- 
sessed, and  which  have  resulted  from  some  extraor- 
dinary change  in  human  nature  since  their  time.  We 
have  no  right  to  assume,  without  very  accurate  exam- 
ination of  it,  that  this  change  has  been  an  ennobling 
one.  The  simple  fact,  that  we  are,  in  some  strange  way, 
different  from  all  the  great  races  that  have  existed  be- 
fore us,  cannot  at  once  be  received  as  the  proof  of  our 
own  greatness;  nor  can  it  be  granted,  without  any 
question,  that  we  have  a  legitimate  subject  of  compla- 
cency in  being  under  the  influence  of  feelings,  with 
which  neither  Miltiades  nor  the  Black  Prince,  neither 
Homer  nor  Dante,  neither  Socrates  nor  St.  Francis, 
could  for  an  instant  have  sympathized. 

Whether,  however,  this  fact  be  one  to  excite  our  pride 
or  not,  it  is  assuredly  one  to  excite  our  deepest  interest. 
The  fact  itself  is  certain.  For  nearly  six  thousand  years 
the  energies  of  man  have  pursued  certain  beaten  paths, 
manifesting  some  constancy  of  feeling  throughout  all 
that  period,  and  involving  some  fellowship  at  heart, 
among  the  various  nations  who  by  turns  succeeded  or 
surpassed  each  other  in  the  several  aims  of  art  or  policy. 
So  that,  for  these  thousands  of  years,  the  whole  human 
race  might  be  to  some  extent  described  in  general 
terms.  Man  was  a  creature  separated  from  all  others 
by  his  instinctive  sense  of  an  Existence  superior  to  his 
own,  invariably  manifesting  this  sense  of  the  being  of  a 
God  more  strongly  in  proportion  to  his  own  perfectness 
of  mind  and  body;  and  making  enormous  and  self- 
denying  efforts,  in  order  to  obtain  some  persuasion  of 
the  immediate  presence  or  approval  of  the  Divinity. 
So  that,  on  the  whole,  the  best  things  he  did  were  done 
as  in  the  presence,  or  for  the  honour,  of  his  gods ;  and. 


54  MODERN   PAINTERS 

whether  in  statues,  to  help  him  to  imagine  them,  or 
temples  raised  to  their  honour,  or  acts  of  self-sacrifice 
done  in  the  hope  of  their  love,  he  brought  whatever  was 
best  and  skilfullest  in  him  into  their  service,  and  lived  in 
a  perpetual  subjection  to  their  unseen  power.  Also,  he 
was  always  anxious  to  know  something  definite  about 
them;  and  his  chief  books,  songs,  and  pictures  were 
filled  with  legends  about  them,  or  specially  devoted  to 
illustration  of  their  lives  and  nature. 

Next  to  these  gods,  he  was  always  anxious  to  know 
something  about  his  human  ancestors;  fond  of  exalting 
the  memory,  and  telling  or  painting  the  history  of  old 
rulers  and  benefactors ;  yet  full  of  an  enthusiastic  con- 
fidence in  himself,  as  having  in  many  ways  advanced 
beyond  the  best  efforts  of  past  time ;  and  eager  to  record 
his  own  doings  for  future  fame.  He  was  a  creature 
eminently  warlike,  placing  his  principal  pride  in  do- 
minion; eminently  beautiful,  and  having  great  delight 
in  his  own  beauty;  setting  forth  this  beauty  by  every 
spccici^  of  invention  in  dress,  and  rendering  his  arms 
and  accoutrements  superbly  decorative  of  his  form. 
He  took,  however,  very  little  interest  in  an\ihing  but 
what  belonged  to  humanity;  caring  in  no  wise  for  the 
external  world,  except  as  it  influenced  his  own  destiny; 
honouring  the  lightning  because  it  could  strike  him,  the 
sea  because  it  could  drown  him,  the  fountains  because 
they  gave  him  drink,  and  the  grass  because  it  yielded 
him  seed;  but  utterly  incapable  of  feeling  any  special 
happiness  in  the  love  of  such  things,  or  any  earnest 
emotion  about  them,  considered  as  separate  from  man ; 
therefore  giving  no  time  to  the  study  of  them  ;  —  know- 
ing little  of  herbs,  except  only  which  were  hurtful  and 
which  healing;  of  stones,  only  which  would  glitter 
brightest  in  a  crown,  or  last  the  longest  in  a  wall :  of  the 


OF  THE  NOVELTY  OF  LANDSCAPE   55 

wild  beasts,  which  were  best  for  food,  and  which  the 
stoutest  quarry  for  the  hunter;  —  thus  spending  only 
on  the  lower  creatures  and  inanimate  things  his  waste 
energy,  his  dullest  thoughts,  his  most  languid  emotions, 
and  reserving  all  his  acuter  intellect  for  researches  into 
his  own  nature  and  that  of  the  gods ;  all  his  strength  of 
will  for  the  acquirement  of  political  or  moral  power ;  all 
his  sense  of  beauty  for  things  immediately  connected 
with  his  own  person  and  life ;  and  all  his  deep  affections 
for  domestic  or  divine  companionship. 

Such,  in  broad  light  and  brief  terms,  was  man  for 
five  thousand  years.  Such  he  is  no  longer.  Let  us  con- 
sider what  he  is  now,  comparing  the  descriptions  clause 
by  clause. 

I.  He  was  invariably  sensible  of  the  existence  of  gods, 
and  went  about  all  his  speculations  or  works  holding 
this  as  an  acknowledged  fact,  making  his  best  efforts  in 
their  service.  Now  he  is  capable  of  going  through  life 
with  hardly  any  positive  idea  on  this  subject,  —  doubt- 
ing, fearing,  suspecting,  analyzing,  —  doing  every- 
thing, in  fact,  but  believing ;  hardly  ever  getting  quite  up 
to  that  point  which  hitherto  was  wont  to  be  the  starting- 
point  for  all  generations-  And  human  work  has  accord- 
ingly hardly  any  reference  to  spiritual  beings,  but  is 
done  either  from  a  patriotic  or  personal  interest,  — 
either  to  benefit  mankind,  or  reach  some  selfish  end, 
not  (I  speak  of  human  work  in  the  broad  sense)  to 
please  the  gods. 

II.  He  was  a  beautiful  creature,  setting  forth  this 
beauty  by  all  means  in  his  power,  and  depending  upon 
it  for  much  of  his  authority  over  his  fellows.  So  that  the 
ruddy  cheek  of  David,  and  the  ivory  skin  of  Atrides, 
and  the  towering  presence  of  Saul,  and  the  blue  eyes 
of  Coeur  de  Lion,  were  among  chief  reasons  why  they 


56  MODERN    PAINTERS 

should  be  kings;  and  it  was  one  of  the  aims  of  all  edu- 
cation, and  of  all  dress,  to  make  the  presence  of  the 
human  form  stately  and  lovely.  Now  it  has  become  the 
task  of  grave  philosophy  partly  to  depreciate  or  conceal 
this  bodily  beauty;  and  even  by  those  who  esteem  it  in 
their  hearts,  it  is  not  made  one  of  the  great  ends  of  edu- 
cation ;  man  has  become,  upon  the  whole,  an  ugly 
animal,  and  is  not  ashamed  of  his  ugliness. 

III.  He  z^a5  eminently  warlike.  He  Is  now  graduaWy 
becoming  more  and  more  ashamed  of  all  the  arts  and 
aims  of  battle.  So  that  the  desire  of  dominion,  which 
was  once  frankly  confessed  or  boasted  of  as  a  heroic 
passion,  is  now  sternly  reprobated  or  cunningly  dis- 
claimed. 

IV.  He  used  to  take  no  interest  in  anything  but  what 
immediately  concerned  himself.  Now,  he  has  deep 
interest  in  the  abstract  nature  of  things,  inquires  as 
eagerly  into  the  laws  which  regulate  the  economy  of  the 
material  world,  as  into  those  of  his  own  being,  and  man- 
ifests a  passionate  admiration  of  inanimate  objects, 
closely  resembling,  in  its  elevation  and  tenderness,  the 
affection  which  he  bears  to  those  living  souls  with 
which  he  is  brought  into  the  nearest  fellowship. 

It  is  this  last  change  only  which  is  to  be  the  subject  of 
our  present  inquiry;  but  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  it  is 
closely  connected  with  all  the  others,  and  that  we  can 
only  thoroughly  understand  its  nature  by  considering  it 
in  this  connection.  For,  regarded  by  itself,  we  might, 
perhaps,  too  rashly  assume  it  to  be  a  natural  conse- 
quence of  the  progress  of  the  race.  There  appears  to  be 
a  diminution  of  selfishness  in  it,  and  a  more  extended 
and  heartfelt  desire  of  understanding  the  manner  of 
God's  working;  and  this  the  more,  because  one  of  the 
permanent  characters  of  this  change  is  a  greater  accu- 


OF  THE   NOVELTY  OF  LANDSCAPE        57 

racy  in  the  statement  of  external  facts.  When  the  eyes 
of  men  were  fixed  first  upon  themselves,  and  upon  na- 
ture solely  and  secondarily  as  bearing  upon  their  inter- 
ests, it  was  of  less  consequence  to  them  what  the  ulti- 
mate laws  of  nature  were,  than  what  their  immediate 
effects  were  upon  human  beings.  Hence  they  could  rest 
satisfied  with  phenomena  instead  of  principles,  and 
accepted  without  scrutiny  every  fable  which  seemed 
sufficiently  or  gracefully  to  account  for  those  phe- 
nomena. But  so  far  as  the  eyes  of  men  are  now  with- 
drawn from  themselves,  and  turned  upon  the  inanimate 
things  about  them,  the  results  cease  to  be  of  impor- 
tance, and  the  laws  become  essential. 

In  these  respects,  it  might  easily  appear  to  us  that 
this  change  was  assuredly  one  of  steady  and  natural 
advance.  But  when  we  contemplate  the  others  above 
noted,  of  which  it  is  clearly  one  of  the  branches  or  con- 
sequences, we  may  suspect  ourselves  of  over-rashness 
in  our  self-congratulation,  and  admit  the  necessity  of  a 
scrupulous  analysis  both  of  the  feeling  itself  and  of  its 
tendencies. 

Of  course  a  complete  analysis,  or  anything  like  it, 
would  involve  a  treatise  on  the  whole  history  of  the 
world.  I  shall  merely  endeavour  to  note  some  of  the 
leading  and  more  interesting  circumstances  bearing  on 
the  subject,  and  to  show  sufficient  practical  ground  for 
the  conclusion,  that  landscape-painting  is  indeed  a 
noble  and  useful  art,  though  one  not  long  known  by 
man.  I  shall  therefore  examine,  as  best  I  can,  the  effect 
of  landscape,  1st,  on  the  Classical  mind;  2dly,  on  the 
Mediaeval  mind  ;  and  lastly,  on  the  Modern  mind.  But 
there  is  one  point  of  some  interest  respecting  the  effect 
of  it  on  any  mind,  which  must  be  settled  first:  and  this 
I  will  endeavour  to  do  in  the  next  chapter. 


58  MODERN    PAINTERS 

OF  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY* 
Volume  III,  Chapter  12 

Now,  therefore,  putting  these  tiresome  and  absurd 
words  '  quite  out  of  our  way,  we  may  go  on  at  our  ease 
to  examine  the  point  in  question, —  namely,  the  differ- 
ence between  the  ordinary,  proper,  and  true  appear- 
ances of  things  to  us;  and  the  extraordinary,  or  false 
appearances,  when  we  are  under  the  influence  of  emo- 
tion, or  contemplative  fancy;  false  appearances,  I  say, 
as  being  entirely  unconnected  with  any  real  power  or 
character  in  the  object,  and  only  imputed  to  it  by  us. 

For  instance  — 

The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mould 
Naked  and  shivering,  with  his  cup  of  gold.^ 

j\  This  is  very  beautiful,  and  yet  very  untrue.  The 
jirocus  is  not  a  spendthrift,  but  a  hardy  plant ;  its  yellow 
is  not  gold,  but  saffron.  How  is  it  that  we  enjoy  so 
much  the  having  it  put  into  our  heads  that  it  is  any- 
thing else  than  a  plain  crocus.^ 

It  is  an  important  question.  For,  throughout  our 
past  reasonings  about  art,  we  have  always  found  that 
nothing  could  be  good  or  useful,  or  ultimately  pleasur- 
able, which  was  untrue.  But  here  is  something  plea- 
surable in  written  poetry  which  is  nevertheless  untrue. 

^  Three  short  sections  dlscussino:  the  use  of  the  terms  "  Objective  " 
and  "Subjective"  have  been  omitted  from  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter. 

^  Holmes  (Oliver  Wendell),  quoted  by  IVIiss  Mitford  in  her  Recol- 
lections of  a  Liierary  Life.  [Ruskin.]  From  Astrcea,  a  Poem  de- 
liver ed  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Yale  CoUege.  The 
passage  in  which  these  lines  are  found  was  later  published  as 
Spring. 


OF  THE   PATHETIC   FALLACY  59 

And  what  is  more,  if  we  think  over  our  favourite 
poetry,  we  shall  find  it  full  of  this  kind  of  fallacy,  and 
that  we  like  it  all  the  more  for  being  so. 

It  will  appear  also,  on  consideration  of  the  matter, 
that  this  fallacy  is  of  two  principal  kinds.  Either,  as  in 
this  case  of  the  crocus,  it  is  the  fallacy  of  wilful  fancy, 
which  involves  no  real  expectation  that  it  will  be 
believed ;  or  else  it  is  a  fallacy  caused  by  an  excited  state 
of  the  feelings,  making  us,  for  the  time,  more  or  less 
irrational.  Of  the  cheating  of  the  fancy  we  shall  have 
to  speak  presently;  but,  in  this  chapter,  I  want  to 
examine  the  nature  of  the  other  error,  that  which  the 
mind  admits  when  affected  strongly  by  emotion.  Thus, 
for  instance,  in  Alton  Locke,  — 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam  —     \\ 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam.*  h) 

The  foam  is  not  cruel,  neither  does  it  crawl.  The 
state  of  mind  which  attributes  to  it  these  characters  of  aj 
living  creature  is  one  in  which  the  reason  is  unhinged  by 
grief.  All  violent  feelings  have  the  same  effect.  They 
produce  in  us  a  falseness  in  all  our  impressions  of  exter-j 
nal  things,  which  I  would  generally  characterize  as  the! 
"  pathetic  fallacy." 

Now  we  are  in  the  habit  of  considering  this  fallacy 
as  eminently  a  character  of  poetical  description,  and  the 
temper  of  mind  in  which  we  allow  it,  as  one  eminently 
poetical,  because  passionate.  But  I  believe,  if  we  look 
well  into  the  matter,  that  we  shall  find  the  greatest 
do  not  often  admit  this  kind  of  falseness,  —  that 
only  the  second  order  of  poets  who  much  delight  in  it.^ 

^  KiniTsley's  Alfon  Tjjcke,  chap.  26.  .  \ 

'  1  admit  two  orders  of  poets,  but  no  third ;  and  by  these  two  orders    \   \ 
I  mean  the  creative  (Shakspere,  Homer,  Dante),  and  Reflective  or 
Perceptive  (\^  ordsworth,  Keats,  Tennyson).  But  both  of  these  must 


we  look  \ 
2st  poets  I 
hat  it  is    \ 


60  MODERN    PAINTERS 

Thus,  when  Dante  describes  the  spirits  falling  from 
the  bank  of  Acheron  "as  dead  leaves  flutter  from  a 
bough,"  ^  he  gives  the  most  perfect  image  possible  of 
their  utter  lightness,  feebleness,  passiveness,  and  scat- 
tering agony  of  despair,  without,  however,  for  an 
instant  losing  his  own  clear  perception  that  these  are 
souls,  and  those  are  leaves;  he  makes  no  confusion  of 
one  with  the  other.    But  when  Coleridge  speaks  of 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can,^ 

he  has  a  morbid,  that  is  to  say,  a  so  far  false,  idea  about 
the  leaf;  he  fancies  a  life  in  it,  and  will,  which  there  are 
not;  confuses  its  powerlessness  with  choice,  its  fading 
death  with  merriment,  and  the  wind  that  shakes  it  with 

be  first-rate  in  their  range,  thouo;h  their  ranjije  is  different;  and  with 
poetry  second-rate  in  quality  no  one  ought  to  l)e  allowed  to  trouble 
mankind.  There  is  quite  enough  of  the  best,  —  much  more  than  we 
can  ever  read  or  enjoy  in  the  length  of  a  life;  and  it  is  a  literal  wrong 
or  sin  in  any  person  to  encumber  us  with  inferior  work.  1  have  no 
patience  with  apologies  made  by  young  pseudo-poets,  "that  they 
believe  there  is  soue  good  in  what  they  have  written :  that  they  hope  to 
do  better  in  time,"  etc.  Some  good !  If  there  is  not  all  good,  there  is 
no  good.  If  they  ever  hope  to  do  better,  why  do  they  trouble  us  now  ? 
Let  them  rather  courageously  burn  all  they  have  done,  and  wait  for 
the  better  days.  There  are  few  men,  ordinarily  educated,  who  in 
moments  of  strong  feeling  could  not  strike  out  a  poetical  thought,  and 
afterwards  polish  it  so  as  to  be  presentable.  But  men  of  sense  know 
better  than  so  to  waste  their  time;  and  those  who  sincerely  love 
poetry,  know  the  touch  of  the  master's  hand  on  the  chords  too  well  to 
fumble  among  them  after  him.  Nay,  more  than  this,  all  inferior 
poetry  is  an  injury  to  the  good,  inasmuch  as  it  takes  away  the  fresh- 
ness of  rhymes,  blunders  upon  and  gives  a  wretched  commonalty  to 
good  thoughts;  and,  in  general,  adds  to  the  weight  of  human  weari- 
ness in  a  most  woful  and  culpable  manner.  There  are  few  thoughts 
likely  to  come  across  ordinary  men,  which  have  not  already  been 
expressed  by  greater  men  in  the  best  possible  way;  and  it  is  a  wiser, 
more  generous,  more  noble  thing  to  remember  and  point  out  the 
perfect  words,  than  to  invent  poorer  ones,  wherewith  to  encumber 
temporarily  the  world.  [Ruskin.] 

»  Injerno,  3.  112. 

2  Christabel,  1.  49-50. 


OF  THE   PATHETIC   FALLACY  61 

music.  Here,  however,  there  is  some  beauty,  even  in 
the  morbid  passage;  but  take  an  instance  in  Homer 
and  Pope.  Without  the  knowledge  of  Ulysses,  Elpenor, 
his  youngest  follower,  has  fallen  from  an  upper  cham- 
ber in  the  Circean  palace,  and  has  been  left  dead,  un- 
missed  by  his  leader  or  companions,  in  the  haste  of 
their  departure.  They  cross  the  sea  to  the  Cimmerian 
land ;  and  Ulysses  summons  the  shades  from  Tartarus. 
The  first  which  appears  is  that  of  the  lost  Elpenor. 
Ulysses,  amazed,  and  in  exactly  the  spirit  of  bitter  and 
terrified  lightness  which  is  seen  in  Hamlet,^  addresses 
the  spirit  with  the  simple,  startled  words  :  — 

"Elpenor !  How  earnest  thou  under  the  shadowy  darkness  ? 
Hast  thou  come  faster  on  foot  than  I  in  my  black  ship.?'*  ^ 

Which  Pope  renders  thus  :  —  ^ 

O,  say,  what  angry  power  Elpenor  led 
To  glide  in  shades,  and  wander  with  the  dead  ? 
How  could  thy  soul,  by  realms  and  seas  disjoined, 
Outfly  the  nimble  sail,  and  leave  the  lagging  wind  ? 

1  sincerely  hope  the  reader  finds  no  pleasure  here, 
either  in  the  nimbleness  of  the  sail,  or  the  laziness  of  the 
wind  !  And  yet  how  is  it  that  these  conceits  are  so  pain- 
ful now,  when  they  have  been  pleasant  to  us  in  the  other 
instances  ? 

For  a  very  simple  reason.  They  are  not  a  pathetic 
fallacy  at  all,  for  they  are  put  into  the  mouth  of  the 
wrong  passion  —  a  passion  which  never  could  possibly 
have  spoken  them  —  agonized  curiosity.  Ulysses  wants 
to  know  the  facts  of  the  matter ;  and  the  very  last  thing 
his  mind  could  do  at  the  moment  would  be  to  pause,  or 

^  "  Well  said,  old  mole!  can'st  work  i'  the  ground  so  fast?"  — 
[Rusk  in.] 

2  Odyssey,  11.  57-58. 


62  MODERN    PAINTERS 

siiix^ost  in  anywise  what  was  7wt  a  fact.  The  delay  in  the 
first  three  hnes,  and  conceit  in  the  last,  jar  upon  us 
instantly  like  the  most  frightful  discord  in  music.  No 
poet  of  true  imaginative  power  could  possibly  have 
written  the  passage.* 

Therefore  we  see  that  the  spirit  of  truth  must  guide 
us  in  some  sort, even  in  our  enjoyment  of  fallacy.  Cole- 
ridge's fallacy  has  no  discord  in  it,  but  Pope's  has 
set  our  teeth  on  edge.  Without  farther  questioning,  I 
will  endeavour  to  state  the  main  bearings  of  this  mat- 
ter. 

f  The  temperament  which  admits  the  pathetic  fallacy, 
•is,  as  I  said  above,  that  of  a  mind  and  body  in  some  sort 
too  weak  to  deal  fully  with  what  is  before  them  or  upon 
them  ;  borne  aw^ay,  or  over-clouded,  or  over-dazzled  by 
emotion ;  and  it  is  a  more  or  less  noble  state,  according 
to  the  force  of  the  emotion  which  has  induced  it.  For  it 
is  no  credit  to  a  man  that  he  is  not  morbid  or  inaccurate 
in  his  perceptions,  when  he  has  no  strength  of  feeling  to 
warp  them  ;  and  it  is  in  general  a  sign  of  higher  capacity 
and  stand  in  the  ranks  of  being,  that  the  emotions 
should  be  strong  enough  to  vanquish,  partly,  the  intel- 
lect, and  make  it  believe  what  they  choose.  But  it  is 
still  a  grander  condition  when  the  intellect  also  rises, 
till  it  is  strong  enough  to  assert  its  rule  against,  or 

'  It  is  worth  while  comparing  the  way  a  similar  question  is  pu' 
by  the  exquisite  sincerity  of  Keats:  — 

*     He  wept,  and  his  bright  tears 
Went  tricklinp;  down  the  golden  bow  he  held. 
Thus,  with  half-shut,  suffused  eyes,  he  stood; 
While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  boughs  hard  by 
With  solemn  step  an  awful  goddess  came. 
And  there  was  purport  in  her  looks  for  him. 
Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 
Perplex'd,  the  while  melodiously  he  said, 
*^How  carrCst  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  ?" 

Hyperion,  3.  42.  — [Ruskin.] 


OF  THE  PATHETIC   FALLACY  63 

together  with,  the  utmost  efforts  of  the  passions;  and 
the  whole  man  stands  in  an  iron  glow,  white  hot,  per- 
haps, but  still  strong,  and  in  no  wise  evaporating ;  even 
if  he  melts,  losing  none  of  his  weight. 

So,  then,  we  have  the  three  ranks  :  the  man  who  per- 
ceives rightly,  because  he  does  not  feel,  and  to  whom 
the  primrose  is  very  accurately  the  primrose,^  because 
he  does  not  love  it.  Then,  secondly,  the  man  who  per- 
ceives wrongly,  because  he  feels,  and  to  whom  the  prim- 
rose is  anything  else  than  a  primrose  :  a  star,  or  a  sun,  j 
or  a  fairy's  shield,  or  a  forsaken  maiden.  And  then,; 
lastly,  there  is  the  man  who  perceives  rightly  in  spite  of 
his  feelings,  and  to  whom  the  primrose  is  for  ever  no- 
thing else  than  itself  —  a  little  flower  apprehended  in 
the  very  plain  and  leafy  fact  of  it,  whatever  and  how 
many  soever  the  associations  and  passions  may  be  that 
crowd  around  it.  And,  in  general,  these  three  classes 
may  be  rated  in  comparative  order,  as  the  men  who  are 
not  poets  at  all,  and  the  poets  of  the  second  order,  and 
the  poets  of  the  first ;  only  however  great  a  man  may  be, 
there  are  always  some  subjects  which  ought  to  throw  / 
him  off  his  balance;  some,  by  which  his  poor  human  / 
capacity  of  thought  should  be  conquered,  and  brought  /  i 
into  the  inaccurate  and  vague  state  of  perception,  so  / 
that  the  language  of  the  highest  inspiration  becomes  \  I 
broken,  obscure,  and  wild  in  metaphor,  resembling  that 
of  the  weaker  man,  overborne  by  weaker  things. 

And  thus,  in  full,  there  are  four  classes  :  the  men  w^ho 
feel  nothing,  and  therefore  see  truly;  the  men  who  feel 
strongly,  think  weakly,  and  see  untruly  (second  ordei 

1  See  Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell,  Part  1:  — 

A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  ncthiiiff  more. 


&4  MODERN    PAINTERS 

of  poets) ;  the  men  who  feel  strongly,  think  strongly,  and 
see  truly  (first  order  of  poets) ;  and  the  men  who,  strong 
as  luinian  ereatures  ean  be,  are  yet  submitted  to  influ- 
?nces  stronger  than  they,  and  see  in  a  sort  untruly, 
because  what  they  see  is  inconceivably  above  them. 
\This  last  is  the  usual  condition  of  prophetic  inspiration. 

I  separate  these  classes,  in  order  that  their  charac- 
ter may  be  clearly  understood ;  but  of  course  they  are 
upited  each  to  the  other  by  imperceptible  transitions, 
and  the  same  mind,  according  to  the  influences  to 
which  it  is  subjected,  passes  at  different  times  into  the 
various  states.  Still,  the  difference  between  the  great 
and  less  man  is,  on  the  whole,  chiefly  in  this  point  of 
alter  ah  il  ity .  That  is  to  say,  the  one  knows  too  much, 
and  perceives  and  feels  too  much  of  the  past  and  future, 
and  of  all  things  beside  and  around  that  which  imme- 
diately affects  him,  to  be  in  any  wise  shaken  by  it.  His 
mind  is  made  up;  his  thoughts  have  an  accustomed 
current ;  his  ways  are  stedfast ;  it  is  not  this  or  that  new 
sight  which  will  at  once  unbalance  him.  He  is  tender 
to  impression  at  the  surface,  like  a  rock  with  deep  moss 
upon  it;  but  there  is  too  much  mass  of  him  to  be 
moved.  The  smaller  man,  with  the  same  degree  of  sen- 
sibility, is  at  once  carried  off  his  feet;  he  wants  to  do 
something  he  did  not  want  to  do  before ;  he  views  all  the 
universe  in  a  new  light  through  his  tears;  he  is  gay 
or  enthusiastic,  melancholy  or  passionate,  as  things 
come  and  go  to  him.  Therefore  the  high  creative  poet 
mig'it  even  be  thought,  to  a  great  extent,  impassive  (as 
shallow  people  think  Dante  stern),  receiving  indeed  all 
feelings  to  the  full,  but  having  a  great  centre  of  reflec- 
tion and  knowledge  in  which  he  stands  serene,  and 
watches  the  feeling,  as  it  were,  from  far  off. 

Dante,  in  his  most  intense  moods,  has  entire  com- 


OF  THE  PATHETIC  FALLACY  65 

mand  of  himself,  and  can  look  around  calmly,  at  all 
moments,  for  the  image  or  the  word  that  will  best  tell 
what  he  sees  to  the  upper  or  lower  world.  But  Keats 
and  Tennyson,  and  the  poets  of  the  second  order,  are 
generally  themselves  subdued  by  the  feelings  under 
which  they  write,  or,  at  least,  write  as  choosing  to  be 
so;  and  therefore  admit  certain  expressions  and  modes 
of  thought  which  are  in  some  sort  diseased  or  false. 

Now  so  long  as  we  see  that  ih^  feeling  is  true,  we  par- 
don, or  are  even  pleased  by,  the  confessed  fallacy  of 
sight  which  it  induces:  we  are  pleased,  for  instance, 
with  those  lines  of  Kingsley's  above  quoted,  not  be- 
cause they  fallaciously  describe  foam,  but  because  they 
faithfully  describe  sorrow.  But  the  moment  the  mind 
of  the  speaker  becomes  cold,  that  moment  every  such 
expression  becomes  untrue,  as  being  for  ever  untrue  in 
the  external  facts.  And  there  is  no  greater  baseness  in 
literature  than  the  habit  of  using  these  metaphorical 
expressions  in  cool  blood.  An  inspired  writer,  in  full 
impetuosity  of  passion,  may  speak  wisely  and  truly 
of  "raging  waves  of  the  sea  foaming  out  their  own 
shame  " ;  *  but  it  is  only  the  basest  writer  who  cannot 
speak  of  the  sea  without  talking  of  "raging  waves,'* 
"remorseless  floods,"  "ravenous  billows,"  etc.;  and  it 
is  one  of  the  signs  of  the  highest  power  in  a  writer  to 
check  all  such  habits  of  thought,  and  to  keep  his  eyes 
fixed  firmly  on  the  pure  fact,  out  of  which  if  any  feeling 
comes  to  him  or  his  reader,  he  knows  it  must  be  a  true 
one. 

To  keep  to  the  waves,  I  forget  who  it  is  who  repre- 
sents a  man  in  despair  desiring  that  his  body  may  be 
cast  into  the  sea, 

Whose  changing  mound,  and  foam  that  passe^  away, 
Might  mock  the  eye  that  questioned  where  I  lay. 
1  Jude  13. 


<J6  MODERN    PAINTERS 

Observe,  there  is  not  a  single  false,  or  even  over- 
charged, expression.  "  Mound  "  of  the  sea  wave  is  perr 
fectly  simple  and  true;  "changing"  is  as  familiar  as 
may  be ;  "  foam  that  passed  away,"  strictly  literal ;  and 
the  whole  line  descriptive  of  the  reality  with  a  degree 
of  accuracy  which  I  know  not  any  other  verse,  in  the 
range  of  poetry,  that  altogether  equals.  For  most 
people  have  not  a  distinct  idea  of  the  clumsiness  and 
massiveness  of  a  large  wave.  The  word  "  wave  "  is  used 
too  generally  of  ripples  and  breakers,  and  bendings  in 
light  drapery  or  grass  :  it  does  not  by  itself  convey  a  per- 
fect image.  But  the  word  "mound"  is  heavy,  large, 
dark,  definite;  there  is  no  mistaking  the  kind  of  wave 
meant,  nor  missing  the  sight  of  it.  Then  the  term 
"changing"  has  a  peculiar  force  also.  Most  people 
think  of  waves  as  rising  and  falling.  But  if  they  look  at 
the  «sea  carefully,  they  will  perceive  that  the  waves  do 
not  rise  and  fall.  They  change.  Change  both  place 
and  form,  but  they  do  not  fall;  one  wave  goes  on,  and 
on,  and  still  on ;  now  lower,  now  higher,  now  tossing 
its  mane  like  a  horse,  now  building  itself  together  like  a 
wall,  now  shaking,  now  steady,  but  still  the  same  w^ave, 
till  at  last  it  seems  struck  by  something,  and  changes, 
one  knows  not  how,  —  becomes  another  wave. 

The  close  of  the  line  insists  on  this  image,  and  paints 
it  still  more  perfectly,  —  "foam  that  passed  away." 
Not  merely  melting,  disappearing,  but  passing  on,  out 
of  sight,  on  the  career  of  the  wave.  Then,  having  put 
the  absolute  ocean  fact  as  far  as  he  may  before  our  eyes, 
the  poet  leaves  us  to  feel  about  it  as  we  may,  and  to 
trace  for  ourselves  the  opposite  fact,  —  the  image  of  the 
green  mounds  that  do  not  change,  and  the  white  and 
written  stones  that  do  not  pass  away;  and  thence  to- 
follow  out  also  the  associated  images  of  the  calm  life 


OF   THE  PATHETIC    FALLACY  67 

with  the  quiet  grave,  and  the  despairing  life  with  the 
fading  foam  — 

Let  no  man  move  his  bones. 
As  for  Samaria,  her  king  is  cut  off  like  the  foam  upon  the 
water.^ 

But  nothing  of  this  is  actually  told  or  pointed  out,  and 
the  expressions,  as  they  stand,  are  perfectly  severe  and 
accurate,  utterly  uninfluenced  by  the  firmly  governed 
emotion  of  the  writer.  Even  the  word  "  mock  "  is  hardly 
an  exception,  as  it  may  stand  merely  for  "  deceive"  or 
"defeat,'*  without  implying  any  impersonation  of  the 
waves. 

It  may  be  well,  perhaps,  to  give  one  or  two  more 
instances  to  show  the  peculiar  dignity  possessed  by  all 
passages,  which  thus  limit  their  expression  to  the  pure 
fact,  and  leave  the  hearer  to  gather  what  he  can  from  it. 
Here  is  a  notable  one  from  the  Iliad.  Helen,  looking 
from  the  Scsean  gate  of  Troy  over  the  Grecian  host, 
and  telling  Priam  the  names  of  its  captains,  says  at 
last :  — 

"I  see  all  the  other  dark-eyed  Greeks;  but  two  I  cannot 
see,  —  Castor  and  Pollux,  —  whom  one  mother  bore  with  me. 
Have  they  not  followed  from  fair  Lacedaemon,  or  have  they 
indeed  Come  in  their  sea- wandering  ships,  but  now  will  not 
enter  into  the  battle  of  men,  fearing  the  shame  and  the  scorn 
that  is  in  Me.?" 

Then  Homer :  — 

"So  she  spoke.  But  them,  already,  the  life-giving  earth 
possessed,  there  in  Lacedsemon,  in  the  dear  fatherland."  ^ 

*  2  Kings  xxiii,  18,  and  Hosea  x,  7. 

2  Iliad,  3.  243. 

In  the  MS.  Ruskin  notes,  "  The  insurpassably  tender  irony  in 
the  epithet  —  'life-giving  earth'  —  of  the  ^ave";  and  then  adds 
another  ilhistration  :  —  "  Compare  the  hammer-stroke  at  the  close  of 
the  [32d]  chapter  of  Vanity  Fair  — '  The  darkness  came  down  on  the 


68  MODERN    PALNTERS 

Note,  here,  the  high  poetical  truth  carried  to  the 
extreme.  The  poet  has  to  speak  of  tlie  earth  in  sadness, 
but  he  will  not  let  that  sadness  affect  or  change  his 
thoughts  of  it.  No ;  though  Castor  and  Pollux  be  dead, 
yet  the  earth  is  our  mother  still,  fruitful,  life-giving. 
These  are  the  facts  of  the  thing.  I  see  nothing  else  than 
these.    Make  what  you  will  of  them. 

Take  another  very  notable  instance  from  Casimir  de 
la  Vigne's  terrible  ballad,  "La  Toilette  de  Constance.'* 
I  must  quote  a  few  lines  out  of  it  here  and  there,  to 
enable  the  reader  who  has  not  the  book  by  him,  to 
understand  its  close. 

"  Vite,  Anna !  vite ;  au  miroir ! 

Plus  vite,  Anna.    L'heure  s'avance, 
Et  je  vais  au  bal  ce  soir 

Chez  I'ambassadeur  de  France. 

**  Y  pensez-vous  ?  ils  sont  fanes,  ces  noeuds ; 

lis  sont  d'hier;  mon  Dieu,  comme  tout  passe  f 
Que  du  reseau  qui  retient  mes  cheveux 

Les  glands  d'azur  retombent  avec  grace. 
Plus  haut !  Plus  has !    Vous  ne  comprenez  rien ! 

Que  sur  mon  front  ce  saphir  etincelle : 
Vous  me  piquez,  maladroite.    Ah,  c'est  bien, 

Bien,  —  chere  Anna !    Je  t'aime,  je  suis  belle. 

*'CeIui  qu'en  vain  je  voudrais  oublier  .  .  . 
(Anna,  ma  robe)  il  y  sera,  j'espere. 
(Ah,  fi !  profane,  est-ce  la  mon  collier  ? 
Quoi!  ces  grains  d'or  benits  par  le  Saint-Pere!) 

field  and  city,  and  Amelia  was  praying  for  George,  who  was  lying  on 
his  face,  dead,  with  a  bullet  through  his  heart.'  A  great  deal  might 
have  been  said  about  it.  The  writer  is  very  sorry  for  Amelia,  neither 
does  he  want  faith  in  prayer.  He  knows  as  well  as  any  of  us  that 
prayer  must  be  answered  in  some  sort ;  but  those  are  the  facts.  The 
man  and  woman  sixteen  miles  apart  —  one  on  her  knees  on  the  floor, 
the  other  on  his  face  in  the  clay.  So  much  love  in  her  heart,  so  much 
lead  in  his.    Make  what  you  can  of  it."   [Cook  and  Wedderburn.] 


OF  THE  PATHETIC   FALLACY 

II  y  sera;  Dieu,  s'il  pressait  ma  main, 

En  y  pensant  a  peine  je  respire : 
Frere  Anselmo  doit  m'entendre  demain. 

Comment  ferai-je,  Anna,  pour  tout  lui  dire  ?  .  .  . 

"  Vite !    un  coup  d'oeil  au  miroir, 

Le  dernier.   J'ai  I'assurance 

Qu'on  va  m'adorer  ce  soir 

Chez  I'ambassadeur  de  France." 

Pres  du  foyer,  Constance  s'admirait. 

Dieu!    sur  sa  robe  il  vole  une  etincelle! 
Au  feu!    Courez!    Quand  I'espoir  I'enivrait, 

Tout  perdre  ainsi !    Quoi !    Mourir,  —  et  si  belle ! 
L'horrible  feu  ronge  avec  volupte 

Ses  bras,  son  sein,  et  I'entoure,  et  s'eleve, 
Et  sans  pitie  devore  sa  beaute, 

Ses  dix-huit  ans,  helas,  et  son  doux  reve! 

Adieu,  bal,  plaisir,  amour! 

On  disait,  Pauvre  Constance! 
Et  Ton  dansa,  jusqu'au  jour, 

Chez  I'ambassadeur  de  France.* 

The  poem  may  be  crudely  paraphrased  as  follows :  — 

"Quick,  Anna,  quick!   to  the  mirror!  It  is  late. 
And  I'm  to  dance  at  the  ambassador's  .  .  . 
'm  going  to  the  ball  .  .  . 

"They're  faded,  see, 
These  ribbons  —  they  belong  to  yesterday. 
Heavens,  how  all  things  pass!   Now  gracefully  hang 
The  blue  tassels  from  the  net  that  holds  my  hair. 

Higher !  —  no,  lower !  —  you  get  nothing  right !  .  .  . 
Now  let  this  sapphire  sparkle  on  my  brow. 
You're  pricking  me,  you  careless  thing!   That's  good! 
1  love  you,  Anna  dear-   How  fair  I  am.  .  .  . 

'I  hope  he'll  be  there,  too  —  the  one  I've  tried 
To  forget !  no  use !    (Anna,  my  gown !)  he  too  .  .  o 
(O  fie,  you  wicked  girl !  my  necklace,  this  ? 
These  golden  beads  the  Holy  Father  blessed  ?.) 


70  MODERN   PAINTERS 

Yes,  that  is  the  fact  of  it.  Tiv^hi  or  wrong,  the  poet 
does  not  say.  Wliat  you  may  think  about  it,  he  does  not 
know.  He  has  nothing  to  do  with  that.  There  lie  the 
ashes  of  the  dead  girl  in  her  chamber.  There  they 
danced,  till  the  morning,  at  the  Ambassador's  of 
France.   Make  what  you  will  of  it. 

If  the  reader  will  look  through  the  ballad,  of  which  I 
have  quoted  only  about  the  third  part,  he  will  find  that 
there  is  not,  from  beginning  to  end  of  it,  a  single  poeti- 
cal (so  called)  expression,  except  in  one  stanza.  The 
girl  speaks  as  simple  prose  as  may  be;  there  is  not  a 
word  she  would  not  have  actually  used  as  she  was  dress- 
ing. The  poet  stands  by,  impassive  as  a  statue,  record- 
ing her  words  just  as  they  come.  At  last  the  doom 
seizes  her,  and  in  the  very  presence  of  death,  for  an 
instant,  his  own  emotions  conquer  him.  He  records  no 
longer  the  facts  only,  but  the  facts  as  they  seem  to  him. 
The  fire  gnaws  with  voluptuousness  —  without  pity.  It 
is  soon  past.   The  fate  is  fixed  for  ever;  and  he  retires 

He'll  be  there  —  Heavens!  suppose  he  takes  my  hand  — 

I  scarce  can  draw  my  breath  for  thinking  of  it! 

And  I  confess  to  Father  Anselmo 

To-morrow  —  how  can  I  ever  tell  him  all?  .  ,  , 

One  last  glance  at  the  mirror.    O,  I'm  sure 

That  they  '11  adore  me  at  the  ball  to-night." 

Before  the  fire  she  stands  admiringly. 

O  God !  a  spark  has  leapt  into  her  gown. 

Fire,  fire!  —  O  run !  —  Lost  thus  when  mad  with  hope? 

What,  die  ?  and  she  so  fair  ?   The  hideous  flames      • 

Rage  greeciily  about  her  arms  and  breast, 

Envelop  her,  and  leaping  ever  higher, 

Swallow  up  all  her  beauty,  pitiless  — 

Her  eighteen  years,  alas !  and  her  sweet  dream. 

Adieu  to  ball,  to  pleasure,  and  to  love! 
''Poor  Constance!"  said  the  dancers  at  the  ball, 
"Poor  Constance!"  —  and  they  danced  till  break  of  day. 


OF  THE    PATHETIC   FALLACY  71 

into  his  pale  and  crystalline  atmosphere  of  truth.   He 
closes  all  with  the  calm  veracity,  j    . 

A, 

They  said,  "Poor  Constance!" 

Now  in  this  there  is  the  exact  type  of  the  consum- 
mate poetical  temperament.  For,  be  it  clearly  and  con- 
stantly remembered,  that  the  greatness  of  a  poet  de- 
pends upon  the  two  faculties,  acuteness  of  feeling,  and 
command  of  it.  A  poet  is  great,  first  in  proportion  to 
the  strength  of  his  passion,  and  then,  that  strength 
being  granted,  in  proportion  to  his  government  of  it; 
there  being,  however,  always  a  point  beyond  which  it 
would  be  inhuman  and  monstrous  if  he  pushed  this  * 
government,  and,  therefore,  a  point  at  which  all  fever- 
ish and  wild  fancy  becomes  just  and  true.  Thus  the 
destruction  of  the  kingdom  of  Assyria  cannot  be  con- 
templated firmly  by  a  prophet  of  Israel.  The  fact  is  too 
great,  too  wonderful.  It  overthrows  him,  dashes  him 
into  a  confused  element  of  dreams.  All  the  world  is,  to 
his  stunned  thought,  full  of  strange  voices.  "Yea,  the 
fir-trees  rejoice  at  thee,  and  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  say- 
ing, 'Since  thou  art  gone  down  to  the  grave,  no  feller  is 
come  up  against  us.'  "  ^  So,  still  more,  the  thought  of 
the  presence  of  Deity  cannot  be  borne  without  this  great 
astonishment.  "The  mountains  and  the  hills  shall 
break  forth  before  you  into  singing,  and  all  the  trees  of 
the  field  shall  clap  their  hands."  ^ 

But  by  how  much  this  feeling  is  noble  when  it  is  jus- 
tified by  the  strength  of  its  cause,  by  so  much  it  is 
ignoble  when  there  is  not  cause  enough  for  it:  and 
beyond  all  other  ignobleness  is  the  mere  affectation  of 
it,  in  hardness  of  heart.  Simply  bad  writing  may  almost 
always,  as  above  noticed,  be  known  by  its  adoption  of 
^  Isaiah  xiv,  8.  2  Isaiah  Iv,  12. 


72  MODERN    PAINTERS 

these  fanciful  metaphorical  expressions  as  a  sort  of  cur- 
rent coin;  yet  there  is  even  a  worse,  at  least  a  more 
harmful  condition  of  writing  than  this,  in  which  such 
expressions  are  not  ignorantly  and  feelinglessly  caught 
up,  but,  by  some  master,  skilful  in  handling,  yet  insin- 
cere, deliberately  wrought  out  with  chill  and  studied 
fancy ;  as  if  we  should  try  to  make  an  old  lava-stream 
look  red-hot  again,  by  covering  it  with  dead  leaves,  or 
white-hot,  with  hoar-frost. 

When  Young  is  lost  in  veneration,  as  he  dwells  on 
the  character  of  a  truly  good  and  holy  man,  he  permits 
himself  for  a  moment  to  be  overborne  by  the  feeling  so 
far  as  to  exclaim  — 

Where  shall  I  find  him  ?   angels,  tell  me  where. 
You  know  him;  he  is  near  you;  point  him  out. 
Shall  I  see  glories  beaming  from  his  brow, 
Or  trace  his  footsteps  by  the  rising  flowers  ?  ^ 

This  emotion  has  a  worthy  cause,  and  is  thus  true 
and  right.  But  now  hear  the  cold-hearted  Pope  say  to  a 
shepherd  girl  — 

Where'er  you  walk,  cool  gales  shall  fan  the  glade; 
Trees,  where  you  sit,  shall  crowd  into  a  shade; 
Your  praise  the  birds  shall  chant  in  every  grove, 
And  winds  shall  waft  it  to  the  powers  above. 
But  would  you  sing,  and  rival  Orpheus'  strain. 
The  wondering  forests  soon  should  dance  again; 
The  moving  mountains  hear  the  powerful  call. 
And  headlong  streams  hang,  listening,  in  their  fall.^ 

This  is  not,  nor  could  it  for  a  moment  be  mistaken 
for,  the  language  of  passion.  It  is  simple  falsehood, 
uttered   by  hypocrisy;   definite   absurdity,   rooted   in 

1  Night  Thoughts,  2.  345. 

2  Pastorals :  Summer,  or  Alexis,  73  fif.,  with  the  omission  of  two 
couplets  after  the  first. 


OF  THE  PATHETIC    FALLACY  73 

affectation,  and  coldly  asserted  in  the  teeth  of  nature 
and  fact.  Passion  will  indeed  go  far  in  deceiving  itself; 
but  it  must  be  a  strong  passion,  not  the  simple  wish  of  a 
lover  to  tempt  his  mistress  to  sing.  Compare  a  very 
closely  parallel  passage  in  Wordsworth,  in  which  the 
lover  has  lost  his  mistress  :  — 

Three  years  had  Barbara  in  her  grave  been  laid, 
,When  thus  his  moan  he  made :  — 

**Oh,  move,  thou  cottage,  from  behind  yon  oak. 

Or  let  the  ancient  tree  uprooted  lie, 
That  in  some  other  way  yon  smoke 

May  mount  into  the  sky. 
If  still  behind  yon  pine-tree's  ragged  bough. 

Headlong,  the  waterfall  must  come. 

Oh,  let  it,  then,  be  dumb  — 
Be  anything,  sweet  stream,  but  that  which  thou  art  now."  * 

Here  is  a  cottage  to  be  moved,  if  not  a  mountain,  and 
a  water-fall  to  be  silent,  if  it  is  not  to  hang  listening  :  but 
with  what  different  relation  to  the  mind  that  contem- 
plates them !  Here,  in  the  extremity  of  its  agony,  the 
soul  cries  out  wildly  for  relief,  which  at  the  same  mo- 
ment it  partly  knows  to  be  impossible,  but  partly 
believes  possible,  in  a  vague  impression  that  a  mira- 
cle might  be  wrought  to  give  relief  even  to  a  less  sore 
distress,  —  that  nature  is  kind,  and  God  is  kind,  and 
that  grief  is  strong;  it  knows  not  well  what  is  possi- 
ble to  such  grief.  To  silence  a  stream,  to  move  a  cot- 
tage wall,  —  one  might  think  it  could  do  as  much  as 
that ! 

I  believe  these  instances  are  enough  to  illustrate  the 
main  point  I  insist  upon  respecting  the  pathetic  fallacy, 

^  From  the  poem  beofinning  T  is  said  that  some  have  died  for  love, 
Ruskin  e\idently  quqfed  from  memory,  for  there  are  several  verbal 
slips  in  the  passage  quoted. 


74  MODERN   PAINTERS 

—  that  so  far  as  it  1.9  a  fallacy,  it  is  always  the  sign  of  a 
morbid  state  of  mind,  and  comparatively  of  a  weak  one. 
Even  in  the  most  inspired  prophet  it  is  a  sign  of  the 
incapacity  of  his  human  sight  or  thought  to  bear  what 
has  been  revealed  to  it.  In  ordinary  poetry,  if  it  is  found 
in  the  thoughts  of  the  poet  himself,  it  is  at  once  a  sign 
of  his  belonging  to  the  inferior  school ;  if  in  the  thoughts 
of  the  characters  imagined  by  him,  it  is  right  or  wrong 
according  to  the  genuineness  of  the  emotion  from 
which  it  springs ;  always,  however,  implying  necessarily 
some  degree  of  weakness  in  the  character. 

Take  two  most  exquisite  instances  from  master 
hands.  The  Jessy  of  Shenstone,  and  the  Ellen  of 
Wordsworth,  have  both  been  betrayed  and  deserted. 
Jessy,  in  the  course  of  her  most  touching  complaint, 
says : — 

If  through  the  garden's  flowery  tribes  I  stray, 

Where  bloom  the  jasmines  that  could  once  allure, 
"  Hope  not  to  find  delight  in  us,"  they  say, 
"  For  we  are  spotless,  Jessy;  we  are  pure."  ^ 

Compare  with  this  some  of  the  words  of  Ellen :  — 

"Ah,  why,"  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 
"Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge, 
And  nature,  that  is  kind  in  woman's  breast, 
And  reason,  that  in  man  is  wise  and  good, 
And  fear  of  Him  who  is  a  righteous  Judge,  — 
Why  do  not  these  prevail  for  human  life. 
To  keep  two  hearts  together,  that  began 
Their  springtime  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 
Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness  sweet 
To  grant,  or  be  received ;  while  that  poor  bird  — 
O,  come  and  hear  him!   Thou  who  hast  to  me 
Been  faithless,  hear  him ;  —  though  a  lowly  creature, 

^  Stanza  16,  of  Shenstone's  twenty-sixth  Elegy. 


OF  THE  PATHETIC   FALLACY  75 

One  of  God's  simple  children  that  yet  know  not 
The  Universal  Parent,  how  he  sings! 
As  if  he  wished  the  firmament  of  heaven 
Should  listen,  and  give  back  to  him  the  voice 
Of  his  triumphant  constancy  and  love; 
The  proclamation  that  he  makes,  how  far 
His  darkness  doth  transcend  our  fickle  light."  * 

The  perfection  of  both  these  passages,  as  far  as  regards 
truth  and  tenderness  of  imagination  in  the  two  poets, 
is  quite  insuperable.  But  of  the  two  characters  imag- 
ined, Jessy  is  weaker  than  Ellen,  exactly  in  so  far  as 
something  appears  to  her  to  be  in  nature  which  is  not. 
The  flow^ers  do  not  really  reproach  her.  God  meant 
them  to  comfort  her,  not  to  taunt  her ;  they  would  do  so 
if  she  saw  them  rightly. 

Ellen,  on  the  other  hand,  is  quite  above  the  slightest 
erring  emotion.  There  is  not  the  barest  film  of  fallacy 
in  all  her  thoughts.  She  reasons  as  calmly  as  if  she  did 
not  feel.  And,  although  the  singing  of  the  bird  suggests 
to  her  the  idea  of  its  desiring,  to  be  heard  in  heaven,  she 
does  not  for  an  instant  admit  any  veracity  in  the 
thought.  "As  if,"  she  says,  —  "I  knoAV  he  means  no- 
thing of  the  kind;  but  it  does  verily  seem  as  if."  The 
reader  will  find,  by  examining  the  rest  of  the  poem,  that 
Ellen's  character  is  throughout  consistent  in  this  clear 
though  passionate  strength.^ 

^  The  Excursim,  6.  869  ff . 

^  I  cannot  quit  this  subject  without  jii\nn<?  two  more  instances, 
both  exquisite,  of  the  pathetic  fallacy,  which  I  have  just  come  upon, 
in  Maud :  — 

For  a  jrreat  speculation  had  fail'd : 

And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair; 
And  out  he  walk'd,  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldlino;  wail'd, 

And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 
From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 


76  MODERN  PAINTERS 

It  then  being,  I  hope,  now  made  clear  to  the  reader  in 
all  respects  that  the  pathetic  fallacy  is  powerful  only  so 
far  as  it  is  pathetic,  feeble  so  far  as  it  is  fallacious,  and, 
therefore,  that  the  dominion  of  Truth  is  entire,  over 
this,  as  over  every  other  natural  and  just  state  of  the 
human  mind,  we  may  go  on  to  the  subject  for  the  deal- 
ing with  which  this  prefatory  inquiry  became  neces- 
sary; and  why  necessary,  we  shall  see  forthwith. 


OF  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE 
Volume  III,  Chapter  13 

My  reason  for  asking  the  reader  to  give  so  much  of 
his  time  to  the  examination  of  the  pathetic  fallacy  was, 
that,  whether  in  literature  or  in  art,  he  will  find  it 
eminently  characteristic  of  the  modern  mind ;  and  in 
the  landscape,  whether  of  literature  or  art,  he  will  also 
find  the  modern  painter  endeavouring  to  express  some- 
thing which  he,  as  a  living  creature,  imagines  in  the  life- 
less object,  while  the  classical  and  mediaeval  painters 
were  content  with  expressing  the  unimaginary  and 
actual  qualities  of  the  object  itself.  It  will  be  observed 
:hat,  according  to  the  principle  stated  long  ago,  I  use 
the  words  painter  and  poet  quite  indifferently,  includ- 
ing in  our  inquiry  the  landscape  of  literature,  as  well  as 
that  of  painting ;  and  this  the  more  because  the  spirit  of 
classical  landscape  has  hardly  been  expressed  in  any 
other  way  than  by  words. 

Taking,  therefore,  this  wide  field,  it  is  surely  a  very 

The  red  rose  cries,  " She  is  near,  she  is  near!" 
And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late." 

The  larkspur  listens,  "  /  hear,  I  hear  !  " 
And  the  lily  whispers,  *'  /  wait. "  [Ruskin.] 


OF  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  77 

notable  circumstance,  to  begin  with,  that  this  pathetic 
fallacy  is  eminently  characteristic  of  modern  painting. 
For  instance,  Keats,  describing  a  wave  breaking  out 
at  sea,  says  of  it :  — 

Down  whose  green  back  the  short-lived  foam,  all  hoar, 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence.^ 

That  is  quite  perfect,  as  an  example  of  the  modern 
manner.  The  idea  of  the  peculiar  action  with  which 
foam  rolls  down  a  long,  large  wave  could  not  have  been 
given  by  any  other  words  so  well  as  by  this  "  wayward 
indolence."  But  Homer  would  never  have  written, 
never  thought  of,  such  words.  He  could  not  by  any  pos- 
sibility have  lost  sight  of  the  great  fact  that  the  wave, 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  it,  do  what  it  might, 
was  still  nothing  else  than  salt  water;  and  that  salt 
water  could  not  be  either  wayward  or  indolent.  He  will 
call  the  waves  "over-roofed,"  "full-charged,"  "mon- 
strous," "compact-black,"  "dark-clear,"  "violet-col- 
oured," "wine-coloured,"  and  so  on.  But  every  one  of 
these  epithets  is  descriptive  of  pure  physical  nature. 
"  Over-roofed  "  is  the  term  he  invariably  uses  of  any- 
thing —  rock,  house,  or  wave  —  that  nods  over  at  the 
brow;  the  other  terms  need  no  explanation  ;  they  are  as 
accurate  and  intense  in  truth  as  words  can  be,  but  they 
never  show  the  slightest  feeling  of  anything  animated 
in  the  ocean.  Black  or  clear,  monstrous  or  violet- 
coloured,  cold  salt  water  it  is  always,  and  nothing  but 
that. 

"  Well,  but  the  modern  writer,  by  his  admission  of  the 
tinge  of  fallacy,  has  given  an  idea  of  something  in  the 
action  of  the  wave  which  Homer  could  not,  and  surely, 
therefore,  has  made  a  step  in  advance  ?  Also  there  ap- 

^  Endymim,  2.  349-350. 


78  MODERN  PAINTERS 

pears  to  be  a  degree  of  sympathy  and  feeling  in  the  one 
writer,  whieh  there  is  not  in  the  other;  and  as  it  has 
been  received  for  a  first  principle  that  writers  are  great 
in  proportion  to  the  intensity  of  their  feelings,  and 
Homer  seems  to  have  no  feelings  about  the  sea  but  that 
it  is  black  and  deep,  surely  in  this  respect  also  the 
modern  writer  is  the  greater  ?  " 

Stay  a  moment.  Homer  had  some  feeling  about  the 
sea;  a  faith  in  the  animation  of  it  much  stronger  than 
Keats's.  But  all  this  sense  of  something  living  in  it,  he 
separates  in  his  mind  into  a  great  abstract  image  of  a 
Sea  Power.  He  never  says  the  waves  rage,  or  the  waves 
are  idle.  But  he  says  there  is  somewhat  in,  and  greater 
than,  the  waves,  which  rages,  and  is  idle,  and  that  he 
calls  a  god. 

I  do  not  think  we  ever  enough  endeavour  to  enter 
into  what  a  Greek's  real  notion  of  a  god  was.  We  are 
so  accustomed  to  the  modern  mockeries  of  the  classical 
religion,  so  accustomed  to  hear  and  see  the  Greek  gods 
introduced  as  living  personages,  or  invoked  for  help,  by 
men  who  believe  neither  in  them  nor  in  any  other  gods, 
that  we  seem  to  have  infected  the  Greek  ages  them- 
selves with  the  breath,  and  dimmed  them  with  the 
shade,  of  our  hypocrisy;  and  are  apt  to  think  that 
Homer,  as  we  know  that  Pope,  was  merely  an  ingenious 
fabulist ;  nay,  more  than  this,  that  all  the  nations  of  past 
time  were  ingenious  fabulists  also,  to  whom  the  uni- 
verse was  a  lyrical  drama,  and  by  whom  whatsoever 
was  said  about  it  was  merely  a  witty  allegory,  or  a  grace- 
ful lie,  of  which  the  entire  upshot  and  consummation 
was  a  pretty  statue  in  the  middle  of  the  court,  or  at  the 
end  of  the  garden. 

This,  at  least,  is  one  of  our  forms  of  opinion  about 
Greek  faith ;  not,  indeed,  possible  altogether  to  any  man 


OF  CLASSICAL   LANDSCAPE  79 

of  honesty  or  ordinary  powers  of  thought;  but  still  so 
venomously  inherent  in  the  modern  philosophy  that  all 
the  pure  lightning  of  Carlyle  cannot  as  yet  quite  burn  it 
out  of  any  of  us.  And  then,  side  by  side  with  this  mere 
infidel  folly,  stands  the  bitter  short-sightedness  of  Puri- 
tanism, holding  the  classical  god  to  be  either  simply  an 
idol,  —  a  block  of  stone  ignorantly,  though  sincerely, 
worshipped  —  or  else  an  actual  diabolic  or  betraying 
power,  usurping  the  place  of  God. 

Both  these  Puritanical  estimates  of  Greek  deity  are 
of  course  to  some  extent  true.  The  corruption  of  classi- 
cal worship  is  barren  idolatry ;  and  that  corruption  was 
deepened,  and  variously  directed  to  their  own  pur- 
poses, by  the  evil  angels.  But  this  was  neither  the 
whole,  nor  the  principal  part,  of  Pagan  worship 
Pallas  was  not,  in  the  pure  Greek  mind,  merely  a 
powerful  piece  of  ivory  in  a  temple  at  Athens ;  neither 
was  the  choice  of  Leonidas  between  the  alternatives 
granted  him  by  the  oracle,  of  personal  death,  or  ruin 
to  his  country,  altogether  a  work  of  the  Devil's  prompt- 
ing- 

What,  then,  was  actually  the  Greek  god  ?  In  whai 
way  were  these  two  ideas  of  human  form,  and  divine 
power,  credibly  associated  in  the  ancient  heart,  so  as 
-to  become  a  subject  of  true  faith  irrespective  equally 
of  fable,  allegory,  superstitious  trust  in  stone,  and 
demoniacal  influence? 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  Greek  had  exactly  the  same 
instinctive  feeling  about  the  elements  that  we  have 
ourselves ;  that  to  Homer,  as  much  as  to  Casimir  de  la 
Vigne,^  fire  seemed  ravenous  and  pitiless ;  to  Homer,  as 
much  as  to  Keats,  the  sea-wave  appeared  wayward  or 
idle,  or  whatever  else  it  may  be  to  the  poetical  passion. 
1  See  p.  68. 


80  MODERN  PAINTERS 

But  then  the  Greek  reasoned  upon  this  sensation,  say- 
ing to  himself :  '*  I  can  Hght  the  fire,  and  put  it  out ;  I 
can  dry  this  water  up,  or  drink  it.  It  cannot  be  the  fire 
or  the  water  that  rages,  or  that  is  wayward.  But  it  must 
be  something  in  this  fire  and  in  the  water,  which  I  can- 
not destroy  by  extinguishing  the  one,  or  evaporating 
the  other,  any  more  than  I  destroy  myself  by  cutting  off 
my  finger;  /  was  in  my  finger,  —  something  of  me  at 
least  was;  I  had  a  power  over  it  and  felt  pain  in  it, 
though  I  am  still  as  much  myself  when  it  is  gone.  So 
there  may  be  a  power  in  the  water  which  is  not  water, 
but  to  which  the  water  is  as  a  body ;  —  which  can  strike 
with  it,  move  in  it,  suffer  in  it,  yet  not  be  destroyed  with 
it.  This  something,  tliis  Great  Water  Spirit,  I  must  not 
confuse  with  the  waves,  which  are  only  its  body.  They 
may  flow  hither  and  thither,  increase  or  diminish. 
That  must  be  invisible  —  imperishable  —  a  god.  So  of 
fire  also ;  those  rays  which  I  can  stop,  and  in  the  midst 
of  which  I  cast  a  shadow,  cannot  be  divine,  nor  greater 
than  I.  They  cannot  feel,  but  there  may  be  something 
in  them  that  feels,  —  a  glorious  intelligence,  as  much 
nobler  and  more  swift  than  mine,  as  these  rays,  which 
are  its  body,  are  nobler  and  swifter  than  my  flesh ;  — 
the  spirit  of  all  light,  and  truth,  and  melody,  and 
revolving  hours." 

It  was  easy  to  conceive,  farther,  that  such  spirits 
should  be  able  to  assume  at  will  a  human  form,  in  order 
to  hold  intercourse  with  men,  or  to  perform  any  act  for 
which  their  proper  body,  whether  of  fire,  earth,  or  air, 
was  unfitted.  x\nd  it  would  have  been  to  place  them 
beneath,  instead  of  above,  humanity,  if,  assuming  the 
form  of  man,  they  could  not  also  have  tasted  his  plea- 
sures. Hence  the  easy  step  to  the  more  or  less  material 
ideas  of  deities,  which  are  apt  at  first  to  shock  us,  but 


OF  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  81 

which  are  indeed  only  dishonourable  so  far  as  they 
represent  the  gods  as  false  and  unholy.  It  is  not  tha 
materialism^Jmt-the  vice,  which  degrades  the  concep- 
tion ;  for  the  materiahsm  itself  is  never  positive  or  com 
plete.  There  is  always  some  sense  of  exaltation  in  the 
spiritual  and  immortal  body ;  and  of  a  power  proceed- 
ing from  the  visible  form  through  all  the  infinity  of  the 
element  ruled  by  the  particular  god.  The  precise  na-u 
ture  of  the  idea  is  well  seen  in  the  passage  of  the  Iliad  \  \ 
which  describes  the  river  Scamander  defending  the  f 
Trojans  against  Achilles.^  In  order  to  remonstrate  with 
the  hero,  the  god  assumes  a  human  form,  which  never- 
theless is  in  some  way  or  other  instantly  recognized  by 
Achilles  as  that  of  the  river-god  :  it  is  addressed  at  once 
as  a  river,  not  as  a  man ;  and  its  voice  is  the  voice  of  a 
river  "out  of  the  deep  whirlpools."  ^  Achilles  refuses 
to  obey  its  commands;  and  from  the  human  form  it 
returns  instantly  into  its  natural  or  divine  one,  and 
endeavours  to  overwhelm  him  with  waves.  Vulcan 
defends  Achilles,  and  sends  fire  against  the  river,  which 
suffers  in  its  water-body,  till  it  is  able  to  bear  no  more. 
At  last  even  the  "nerve  of  the  river,"  or  "strength  of 
the  river"  (note  the  expression),  feels  the  fire,  and  this 
"strength  of  the  river"  addresses  Vulcan  in  supplica- 
tions for  respite.  There  is  in  this  precisely  the  idea  of  a 
vital  part  of  the  river-body,  which  acted  and  felt,  and 
which,  if  the  fire  reached,  it  was  death,  just  as  would 
be  the  case  if  it  touched  a  vital  part  of  the  human  body. 
Throughout  the  passage  the  manner  of  conception  is  i 
perfectly  clear  and  consistent ;  and  if,  in  other  places, 

1  Iliad,  21.  212-360. 

2  Compare  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  canto  i.  stanza  15,  and  canto 
V.  stanza  2.  In  the  first  instance,  the  river-s])irit  is  accurately  the 
Homeric  god,  only  Homer  would  have  believed  in  it,  —  Scott  did  not: 
at  least  not  altogether.   [Ruskin.] 


88  MODERN  PAINTERS 

the  exact  connection  between  the  ruling  spirit  and  the 
tiling  ruled  is  not  so  manifest,  it  is  only  because  it  is 
almost  impossible  for  the  human  mind  to  dwell  long 
upon  such  subjects  without  falling  into  inconsistencies, 
and  gradually  slackening  its  effort  to  grasp  the  entire 
truth;  until  the  more  spiritual  part  of  it  slips  from  its 
hold,  and  only  the  human  form  of  the  god  is  left,  to  be 
conceived  and  described  as  subject  to  all  the  errors 
of  humanity.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  the  idea  ever 
weakens  itself  down  to  mere  allegory.  When  Pallas  is 
said  to  attack  and  strike  down  Mars,  it  does  not  mean 
merely  that  Wisdom  at  that  moment  prevailed  against 
Wrath.  It  means  that  there  are,  indeed,  tw^o  great 
spirits,  one  entrusted  to  guide  the  human  soul  to  w^is- 
dom  and  chastity,  the  other  to  kindle  wrath  and  prompt 
to  battle.  It  means  that  these  two  spirits,  on  the  spot 
where,  and  at  the  moment  when,  a  great  contest  w^as  to 
be  decided  between  all  that  they  each  governed  in  man, 
then  and  there  (assumed)  human  form,  and  human 
weapons,  and  did  verily  and  materially  strike  at  each 
other,  until  the  Spirit  of  Wrath  w^as  crushed.  And 
when  Diana  is  said  to  hunt  with  her  n^Tnphs  in  the 
woods,  it  does  not  mean  merely,  as  Wordsworth  puts 
it,^  that  the  poet  or  shepherd  saw  the  moon  and  stars 
glancing  betw^een  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  wished 
to  say  so  figuratively.  It  means  that  there  is  a  living 
spirit,  to  which  the  light  of  the  moon  is  a  body;  which 
takes  delight  in  glancing  between  the  clouds  and  fol- 
lowing the  wild  beasts  as  they  wander  through  the 
night ;  and  that  this  spirit  sometimes  assumes  a  perfect 
human  form,  and  in  this  form,  with  real  arrows,  pur- 
sues and  slays  the  wild  beasts,  which  w^ith  its  mere 
arrows  of  moonlight  it  could  not  slay ;  retaining,  never- 
»  The  Excursion,  4.  861-871. 


OF  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  83 

theless,  all  the  while,  its  power  and  being  in  the  moon- 
light, and  in  all  else  that  it  rules. 

There  is  not  the  smallest  inconsistency  or  unspiritu- 
ality  in  this  conception.  If  there  were,  it  would  attach 
equally  to  the  appearance  of  the  angels  to  Jacob,  Abra- 
ham, Joshua,  or  Manoah.^  In  all  those  instances  the 
highest  authority  which  governs  our  own  faith  requires 
us  to  conceive  divine  power  clothed  with  a  human  form 
(a  form  so  real  that  it  is  recognized  for  superhuman 
only  by  its  "  doing  wondrously  "),  and  retaining,  never- 
theless, sovereignty  and  omnipresence  in  all  the  world. 
This  is  precisely,  as  I  understand  it,  the  heathen  idea  of 
a  God ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  comprehend  any  single 
part  of  the  Greek  mind  until  we  grasp  this  faithfully, 
not  endeavouring  to  explain  it  away  in  any  wise,  but 
accepting,  with  frank  decision  and  definition,  the 
tangible  existence  of  its  deities ;  —  blue-eyed  —  white- 
fleshed —  human-hearted,  —  capable  at  their  choice 
of  meeting  man  absolutely  in  his  own  nature  —  feast- 
ing with  him  —  talking  with  him  —  fighting  with  him, 
eye  to  eye,  or  breast  to  breast,  as  Mars  with  Diomed ;  ^ 
or  else,  dealing  with  him  in  a  more  retired  spirituality, 
as  Apollo  sending  the  plague  upon  the  Greeks,^  when 
his  quiver  rattles  at  his  shoulders  as  he  moves,  and  yet 
the  darts  sent  forth  of  it  strike  not  as  arrows,  but  as 
plague ;  or,  finally,  retiring  completely  into  the  material 
universe  which  they  properly  inhabit,  and  dealing  with 
man  through  that,  as  Scamander  with  Achilles,  through 
his  waves. 

Nor  is  there  anything  whatever  in  the  various  actions 
recorded  of  the  gods,  however  apparently  ignoble,  to 

^  Genesis  xxviii,  12;  xxxii,  1;  xxii,  11;  Joshua  v,  13  fF. ;  Judges 
xiii,3fT. 

2  Iliad,  5.  846.  s  Iliad,  1.  43. 


84  MODERN   PAINTERS 

indicate  weakness  of  belief  in  them.  Very  frequently 
things  which  appear  to  us  ignoble  are  merely  the  sim- 
plicities of  a  pure  and  truthful  age.  When  Juno  beats 
Diana  about  the  ears  with  her  own  quiver,^  for  instance, 
we  start  at  first,  as  if  Homer  could  not  have  believed 
that  they  were  both  real  goddesses.  But  what  should 
Juno  have  done .''  Killed  Diana  with  a  look  ?  Nay,  she 
neither  wished  to  do  so,  nor  could  she  have  done  so, 
by  the  very  faith  of  Diana's  goddess-ship.  Diana  is  as 
immortal  as  herself.  Frowned  Diana  into  submission  r 
But  Diana  has  come  expressly  to  try  conclusions  with 
her,  and  will  by  no  means  be  frowned  into  submission. 
Wounded  her  with  a  celestial  lance  "^  That  sounds  more 
poetical,  but  it  is  in  reality  partly  more  savage  and 
partly  more  absurd,  than  Homer.  More  savage,  for  it 
makes  Juno  more  cruel,  therefore  less  divine ;  and  more 
absurd,  for  it  only  seems  elevated  in  tone,  because  we 
use  the  word  "celestial,"  which  means  nothing.  What 
sort  of  a  thing  is  a  "  celestial "  lance  .^  Not  a  w^ooden 
one.  Of  what  then  ?  Of  moonbeams,  or  clouds,  or  mist. 
Well,  therefore,  Diana's  arrows  were  of  mist  too;  and 
her  quiver,  and  herself,  and  Juno,  with  her  lance,  and 
all,  vanish  into  mist.  Why  not  have  said  at  once,  if  that 
is  all  you  mean,  that  two  mists  met,  and  one  drove  the 
other  back  ?  That  would  have  been  rational  and  intelli- 
gible, but  not  to  talk  of  celestial  lances.  Homer  had  no 
such  misty  fancy;  he  believed  the  two  goddesses  w^ere 
there  in  true  bodies,  with  true  weapons,  on  the  true 
earth;  and  still  I  ask,  what  should  Juno  have  done? 
Not  beaten  Diana .'^  No;  for  it  is  unlady-like.  Un- 
English-lady-like,  yes ;  but  by  no  means  un-Greek-lady- 
like,  nor  even  un-natural-lady-like.  If  a  modern  lady 
does  not  beat  her  servant  or  her  rival  about  the  ears,  it 
1  Iliad,  21.  489  ff- 


OF   CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  85 

IS  oftener  because  she  is  too  weak,  or  too  proud,  than 
because  she  is  of  purer  mind  than  Homer's  Juno.  She 
will  not  strike  them ;  but  she  will  overwork  the  one  or 
slander  the  other  without  pity;  and  Homer  would  not 
have  thought  that  one  whit  more  goddess-like  than 
striking  them  with  her  open  hand. 

If,  however,  the  reader  likes  to  suppose  that  while 
the  two  goddesses  in  personal  presence  thus  fought 
with  arrow  and  quiver,  there  was  also  a  broader  and 
vaster  contest  supposed  by  Homer  between  the  ele- 
ments they  ruled  ;  and  that  the  goddess  of  the  heavens, 
as  she  struck  the  goddess  of  the  moon  on  the  flush- 
ing cheek,  was  at  the  same  instant  exercising  omnipre- 
sent power  in  the  heavens  themselves,  and  gathering 
clouds,  with  which,  filled  with  the  moon's  own  arrows 
or  beams,  she  was  encumbering  and  concealing  the 
moon;  he  is  welcome  to  this  out  carrying  of  the  idea, 
provided  that  he  does  not  pretend  to  make  it  an  inter- 
pretation instead  of  a  mere  extension,  nor  think  to 
explain  away  my  real,  running,  beautiful  beaten  Diana, 
into  a  moon  behind  clouds.^ 

It  is  only  farther  to  be  noted,  that  the  Greek  concep- 
tion of  Godhead,  as  it  was  much  more  real  than  we  usu- 
ally suppose,  so  it  was  much  more  bold  and  familiar 
than  to  a  modern  mind  would  be  possible.  I  shall  have 
something  more  to  observe,  in  a  little  while,  of  the  dan- 
ger of  our  modern  habit  of  endeavouring  to  raise  our- 
selves to  something  like  comprehension  of  the  truth  of 
divinity,  instead  of  simply  beheving  the  words  in  which 

^  Compare  the  exquisite  lines  of  Longfellow  on  the  sunset  in  The 
Golden  Legend :  — 

The  day  is  done;  and  slowly  from  the  scene 

The  stooping  sun  up-gathers  his  spent  shafts. 

And  puts  them  back  into  his  golden  quiver.       [Ruskin.] 


86  MODERN  PAINTERS 

the  Deity  reveals  Himself  to  us.  The  Greek  erred 
rather  on  the  other  side,  making  hardly  any  effort  to 
conceive  divine  mind  as  above  the  human;  and  no 
more  shrinking  from  frank  intercourse  with  a  divine 
being,  or  dreading  its  immediate  presence,  than  that  of 
the  simplest  of  mortals.  Thus  Atrides,  enraged  at  his 
sword's  breaking  in  his  hand  upon  the  helmet  of  Paris, 
after  he  had  expressly  invoked  the  assistance  of  Ju- 
piter, exclaims  aloud,  as  he  would  to  a  king  who  had 
betrayed  him,  "  Jove,  Father,  there  is  not  another  god 
more  evil-minded  than  thou!"  *  and  Helen,  provoked 
at  Paris's  defeat,  and  oppressed  with  pouting  shame 
both  for  him  and  for  herself,  when  Venus  appears  at  her 
side,  and  would  lead  her  back  to  the  delivered  Paris, 
impatiently  tells  the  goddess  to  "go  and  take  care  of 
Paris  herself."  ^ 

The  modern  mind  is  naturally,  but  vulgarly  and 
unjustly,  shocked  by  this  kind  of  familiarity.  Rightly 
understood,  it  is  not  so  much  a  sign  of  misunderstand- 
ing of  the  divine  nature  as  of  good  understanding  of  the 
human.  The  Greek  lived,  in  all  things,  a  healthy,  and, 
in  a  certain  degree,  a  perfect  life.  He  had  no  morbid 
or  sickly  feeling  of  any  kind.  He  was  accustomed  to 
face  death  without  the  slightest  shrinking,  to  undergo 
all  kinds  of  bodily  hardship  without  complaint,  and  to 
do  what  he  supposed  right  and  honourable,  in  most 
cases,  as  a  matter  of  course.  Confident  of  his  own 
immortality,  and  of  the  power  of  abstract  justice,  he 
expected  to  be  dealt  with  in  the  next  w^orld  as  was  right, 
and  left  the  matter  much  in  his  god's  hands ;  but  being 
thus  immortal,  and  finding  in  his  own  soul  something 
which  it  seemed  quite  as  difficult  to  master,  as  to  rule 
the  elements,  he  did  not  feel  that  it  was  an  appalling 

»  Iliad,  3.  365.  ^  Iliad,  3.  406  ff. 


OF  CLASSICAL   LANDSCAPE  87 

Htiperiority  in  those  gods  to  have  bodies  of  water,  or 
fire,  instead  of  flesh,  and  to  have  various  work  to  do 
among  the  clouds  and  waves,  out  of  his  human  way; 
or  sometimes,  even  in  a  sort  of  service  to  himself.  Was 
not  the  nourishment  of  herbs  and  flowers  a  kind  of 
ministering  to  his  wants ;  were  not  the  gods  in  some  sort 
his  husbandmen,  and  spirit-servants?  Their  mere 
strength  or  omnipresence  did  not  seem  to  him  a  dis- 
tinction absolutely  terrific.  It  might  be  the  nature  of 
one  being  to  be  in  two  places  at  once,  and  of  another  to 
be  only  in  one;  but  that  did  not  seem  of  itself  to  infer 
any  absolute  lordliness  of  one  nature  above  the  other, 
any  more  than  an  insect  must  be  a  nobler  creature  than 
a  man,  because  it  can  see  on  four  sides  of  its  head,  and 
the  man  only  in  front.  They  could  kill  him  or  torture 
him,  it  was  true;  but  even  that  not  unjustly,  or  not  for 
ever.  There  was  a  fate,  and  a  Divine  Justice,  greater 
than  they;  so  that  if  they  did  wrong,  and  he  right, 
he  might  fight  it  out  with  them,  and  have  the  better 
of  them  at  last.  In  a  general  way,  they  were  wiser, 
stronger,  and  better  than  he;  and  to  ask  counsel  of 
them,  to  obey  them,  to  sacrifice  to  them,  to  thank  them 
for  all  good,  this  was  well :  but  to  be  utterly  downcast 
before  them,  or  not  to  tell  them  his  mind  in  plain  Greek 
if  they  seemed  to  him  to  be  conducting  themselves  in 
an  ungodly  manner  —  this  would  not  be  well. 

Such  being  their  general  idea  of  the  gods,  we  can 
now  easily  understand  the  habitual  tone  of  their  feel- 
ings towards  what  was  beautiful  in  nature.  With  us, 
observe,  the  idea  of  the  Divinity  is  apt  to  get  separated 
from  the  life  of  nature ;  and  imagining  our  God  upon 
a  cloudy  throne,  far  above  the  earth,  and  not  in  the 
flowers  or  waters,  we  approach  those  visible  things  with 
a  theory  that  they  are  dead ;  governed  by  physical  laws. 


88  MODERN  PAINTERS 

and  so  forth.  But  coming  to  them,  we  find  the  theory 
fail;  that  they  are  not  dead;  that,  say  what  we  choose 
about  them,  the  instinctive  sense  of  their  being  ahve  is 
too  strong  for  us;  and  in  scorn  of  all  physical  law,  the 
wilful  fountain  sings,  and  the  kindly  flowers  rejoice. 
And  then,  puzzled,  and  yet  happy;  pleased,  and  yet 
ashamed  of  being  so;  accepting  sympathy  from  nature- 
which  we  do  not  believe  it  gives,  and  giving  sympathy 
to  nature,  which  we  do  not  believe  it  receives,  —  mix- 
ing, besides,  all  manner  of  purposeful  play  and  conceit 
with  these  involuntary  fellowships,  —  we  fall  necessa- 
rily into  the  curious  web  of  hesitating  sentiment,  pa- 
thetic fallacy,  and  wandering  fancy, which  form  a  great 
part  of  our  modern  view  of  nature.  But  the  Greek 
never  removed  his  god  out  of  nature  at  all ;  never  at- 
tempted for  a  moment  to  contradict  his  instinctive  sense 
that  God  was  everywhere.  "  The  tree  is  glad,"  said  he, 
**  I  know  it  is ;  I  can  cut  it  down  :  no  matter,  there  was 
a  nymph  in  it.  The  water  does  sing,"  said  he;  "I  can 
dry  it  up ;  but  no  matter,  there  was  a  naiad  in  it."  But 
in  thus  clearly  defining  his  belief,  observe,  he  threw  it 
entirely  into  a  human  form,  and  gave  his  faith  to  no- 
thing but  the  image  of  his  own  humanity.  What  sym- 
pathy and  fellowship  he  had,  were  always  for  the  spirit 
in  the  stream,  not  for  the  stream ;  always  for  the  dryad 
ill  the  wood,  not  for  the  wood.  Content  with  this  hu- 
man sympathy,  he  approached  the  actual  waves  and 
woody  fibres  with  no  sympathy  at  all.  The  spirit  that 
ruled  them,  he  received  as  a  plain  fact.  Them,  also, 
ruled  and  material,  he  received  as  plain  facts;  they, 
without  their  spirit,  were  dead  enough.  A  rose  was 
good  for  scent,  and  a  stream  for  sound  and  coolness; 
for  the  rest,  one  was  no  more  than  leaves,  the  other  no 
more  than  water ;  he  could  not  make  anything  else  of 


OF  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  89 

them;  and  the  divine  power,  which  was  involved  in 
their  existence,  having  been  all  distilled  away  by  him 
into  an  independent  Flora  or  Thetis,  the  poor  leaves  or 
waves  were  left,  in  mere  cold  corporealness,  to  make 
the  most  of  their  being  discernibly  red  and  soft,  clear 
and  wet,  and  unacknowledged  in  any  other  power 
whatsoever. 

Then,  observe  farther,  the  Greeks  lived  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  beautiful  nature,  and  were  as  familiar  with 
blue  sea,  clear  air,  and  sweet  outlines  of  mountain,  as 
we  are  with  brick  walls,  black  smoke,  and  level  fields. 
This  perfect  familiarity  rendered  all  such  scenes  of  nat- 
ural beauty  unexciting,  if  not  indifferent  to  them,  by  lull- 
ing and  overwearying  the  imagination  as  far  as  it  was 
concerned  with  such  things;  but  there  was  another  kind 
of  beauty  which  they  found  it  required  effort  to  obtain, 
and  which,  when  thoroughly  obtained,  seemed  more 
glorious  than  any  of  this  wild  loveliness  —  the  beauty 
of  the  human  countenance  and  form.  This,  they  per- 
ceived, could  only  be  reached  by  continual  exercise  of 
virtue;  and  it  was  in  Heaven's  sight,  and  theirs,  all  the 
more  beautiful  because  it  needed  this  self-denial  to 
obtain  it.  So  they  set  themselves  to  reach  this,  and  hav- 
ing gained  it,  gave  it  their  principal  thoughts,  and  set 
it  off  with  beautiful  dress  as  best  they  might.  But  mak- 
ing this  their  object,  they  w^ere  obliged  to  pass  their 
lives  in  simple  exercise  and  disciplined  employments. 
Living  w^holesomely,  giving  themselves  no  fever  fits, 
either  by  fasting  or  over-eating,  constantly  in  the  open 
air,  and  full  of  animal  spirit  and  physical  power,  they 
became  incapable  of  every  morbid  condition  of  mental 
emotion.  Unhappy  love,  disappointed  ambition,  spir- 
itual despondency,  or  any  other  disturbing  sensation, 
had   little   power   over   the  well-braced   nerves,  and 


90  MODERN   PAINTERS 

healthy  flow  of  the  blood ;  and  what  bitterness  might 
yet  fasten  on  them  was  soon  boxed  or  raced  out  of  a  boy, 
and  spun  or  woven  out  of  a  girl,  or  danced  out  of  both. 
They  had  indeed  their  sorrows,  true  and  deep,  but  still, 
more  like  children's  sorrows  than  ours,  whether  burst- 
ing into  open  cry  of  pain,  or  hid  with  shuddering  under 
the  veil,  still  passing  over  the  soul  as  clouds  do  over 
heaven,  not  sullying  it,  not  mingling  with  it;  —  darken- 
ing it  perhaps  long  or  utterly,  but  still  not  becoming 
one  with  it,  and  for  the  most  part  passing  away  in  dash- 
ing rain  of  tears,  and  leaving  the  man  unchanged;  in 
no  wise  affecting,  as  our  sorrow  does,  the  whole  tone  of 
his  thought  and  imagination  thenceforward. 

How  far  our  melancholy  may  be  deeper  and  wider 
than  theirs  in  its  roots  and  view,  and  therefore  nobler, 
we  shall  consider  presently ;  but  at  all  events,  they  had 
the  advantage  of  us  in  being  entirely  free  from  all  those 
dim  and  feverish  sensations  which  result  from  un- 
healthy state  of  the  body.  I  believe  that  a  large  amount 
of  the  dreamy  and  sentimental  sadness,  tendency  to 
reverie,  and  general  patheticalness  of  modern  hfe  re- 
sults merely  from  derangement  of  stomach;  holding 
to  the  Greek  life  the  same  relation  that  the  feverish 
night  of  an  adult  does  to  a  child's  sleep. 

Farther.  The  human  beauty,  which,  whether  in  its 
bodily  being  or  in  imagined  divinity,  had  become,  for 
the  reasons  we  have  seen,  the  principal  object  of  culture 
and  sympathy  to  these  Greeks,  was,  in  its  perfection, 
eminently  orderly,  s}Tiimetrical,  and  tender.  Hence, 
contemplating  it  constantly  in  this  state,  they  could  not 
but  feel  a  proportionate  fear  of  all  that  was  disorderly, 
unbalanced,  and  ruo^ged.  Havinjr  trained  their  stoutest 
soldiers  into  a  strength  so  delicate  and  lovely,  that 
their  white  flesh,  with  their  blood  upon  it,  should  look 


OF  CLASSICAL   LANDSCAPE  91 

like  ivory  stained  with  purple;  ^  and  having  always 
around  them,  in  the  motion  and  majesty  of  this  beauty, 
enough  for  the  full  employment  of  their  imagination, 
they  shrank  with  dread  or  hatred  from  all  the  rugged- 
ness  of  lower  nature,  —  from  the  wrinkled  forest  bark, 
the  jagged  hill-crest,  and  irregular,  inorganic  storm 
of  sky;  looking  to  these  for  the  most  part  as  adverse 
powers,  and  taking  pleasure  only  in  such  portions  of 
the  lower  world  as  were  at  once  conducive  to  the  rest 
and  health  of  the  human  frame,  and  in  harmony  with 
the  laws  of  its  gentler  beauty. 

Thus,  as  far  as  I  recollect,  without  a  single  exception, 
every  Homeric  landscape,  intended  to  be  beautiful,  is 
\  1  composed  of  a  fountain,  a  meadow,  and  a  shady  grove. 
This  ideal  is  very  interestingly  marked,  as  intended  for 
a  perfect  one,  in  the  fifth  book  of  the  Odyssey ;  when 
Mercury  himself  stops  for  a  moment,  though  on  a  mes- 
sage, to  look  at  a  landscape  "  which  even  an  immortal 
might  be  gladdened  to  behold."  ^  This  landscape  con- 
sists of  a  cave  covered  with  a  running  vine,  all  blooming 
into  grapes,  and  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  alder,  poplar, 
and  sweet-smelling  cypress.  Four  fountains  of  white 
(foaming)  water,  springing  in  succession  (mark  the 
orderliness),  and  close  to  one  another,  flow  away  in  dif- 
ferent directions,  through  a  meadow  full  of  violets  and 
parsley  (parsley,  to  mark  its  moisture,  being  elsewhere 
called  "marsh-nourished,"  and  associated  with  the 
lotus  ^) ;  the  air  is  perfumed  not  only  by  these  violets, 
and  by  the  sweet  cypress,  but  by  Calypso's  fire  of  finely 
chopped  cedar-wood,  which  sends  a  smoke,  as  of  in- 
cense, through  the  island;  Calypso  herself  is  singing; 
,and  finally,  upon  the  trees  are  resting,  or  roosting,  owls, 

1  Iliad,  4.  141.    [Ruskin.]  '  Qdyssey..  5.  63-74, 

3  Iliad,  2.  776.     [Ruskin.] 


92  MODERN   PAINTERS 

hawks,  and  "  long-tongued  sea-crows."  Whether  these 
last  are  considered  as  a  part  of  the  ideal  landscape,  as 
marine  singing  birds,  I  know  not;  but  the  approval  of 
Mercury  appears  to  be  elicited  chiefly  by  the  fountains 
and  violet  meadow. 

Now  the  notable  things  in  this  description  are,  first, 
the  evident  subservience  of  the  whole  landscape  to  hu- 
man comfort,  to  the  foot,  the  taste,  or  the  smell ;  and, 
secondly,  that  throughout  the  passage  there  is  not  a 
single  figurative  word  expressive  of  the  things  being  in 
any  wise  other  than  plain  grass,  fruit,  or  flower.  I  have 
used  the  term  "  spring  "  of  the  fountains,  because,  with- 
out doubt.  Homer  means  that  they  sprang  forth  brightly, 
having  their  source  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks  (as  copious 
fountains  nearly  always  have) ;  but  Homer  does  not  say 
"spring,"  he  says  simply  flow,  and  uses  only  one  word 
for  "growing  softly,"  or  "richly,"  of  the  tall  trees,  the 
vine,  and  the  violets.  There  is,  however,  some  expres- 
sion of  sympathy  with  the  sea-birds ;  he  speaks  of  them 
in  precisely  the  same  terms,  as  in  other  places  of  naval 
nations,  saying  they  "  have  care  of  the  works  of  the  sea." 

If  we  glance  through  the  references  to  pleasant  land- 
scape which  occur  in  other  parts  of  the  Odyssey,  we 
shall  always  be  struck  by  this  quiet  subjection  of  their 
every  feature  to  human  service,  and  by  the  excessive 
similarity  in  the  scenes.  Perhaps  the  spot  intended, 
after  this,  to  be  most  perfect,  may  be  the  garden  of 
Alcinous,  where  the  principal  ideas  are,  still  more 
definitely,  order,  symmetry,  and  fruitfulness ;  ^  the  beds 
being  duly  ranged  between  rows  of  vines,  which,  as  well 
as  the  pear,  apple,  and  fig  trees,  bear  fruit  continually, 
some  grapes  being  yet  sour,  while  others  are  getting 
black;  there  are  plenty  of  "orderly  square  beds  of 
1  Odyssey,  7.  112-132. 


OF  CLASSICAL   LANDSCAPE  93 

herbs,"  chiefly  leeks,  and  two  fountains,  one  running 
through  the  garden,  and  one  under  the  pavement  of  the 
palace  to  a  reservoir  for  the  citizens.  Ulysses,  pausing 
to  contemplate  this  scene,  is  described  nearly  in  the 
same  terms  as  Mercury  pausing  to  contemplate  the 
wilder  meadow ;  and  it  is  interesting  to  observe,  that,  in 
spite  of  all  Homer's  love  of  symmetry,  the  god's  admi- 
ration is  excited  by  the  free  fountains,  wild  violets,  and 
wandering  vine;  but  the  mortal's,  by  the  vines  in  rows, 
the  leeks  in  beds,  and  the  fountains  in  pipes. 

Ulysses  has,  however,  one  touching  reason  for  loving 
vines  in  rows.  His  father  had  given  him  fifty  rows  for 
himself,  when  he  was  a  boy,  with  corn  between  them 
(just  as  it  now  grows  in  Italy).  Proving  his  identity 
afterwards  to  his  father,  whom  he  finds  at  work  in  his 
garden,  "with  thick  gloves  on,  to  keep  his  hands  from 
the  thorns,"  he  reminds  him  of  these  fifty  rows  of  vines, 
and  of  the  "thirteen  pear-trees  and  ten  apple-trees" 
which  he  had  given  him :  and  Laertes  faints  upon  his 
neck.^ 

If  Ulysses  had  not  been  so  much  of  a  gardener,  it 
might  have  been  received  as  a  sign  of  considerable 
feeling  for  landscape  beauty,  that,  intending  to  pay 
the  very  highest  possible  compliment  to  the  Princess 
Nausicaa  (and  having,  indeed,  the  moment  before 
gravely  asked  her  whether  she  was  a  goddess  or  not), 
he  says  that  he  feels,  at  seeing  her,  exactly  as  he  did 
when  he  saw  the  young  palm  tree  growing  at  Apollo's 
shrine  at  Delos.^  But  I  think  the  taste  for  trim  hedges 
and  upright  trunks  has  its  us-ual  influence  over  him  here 
also,  and  that  he  merely  means  to  tell  the  princess  that 
she  is  delightfully  tall  and  straight. 

The  princess  is,  however,  pleased  by  his  address,  and 
»  Odyssey,  24.  334  ff.  ^  Qdyssey,  6.  162. 


94  MODERN   PAINTERS 

tc  lis  him  to  wait  outside  the  town,  till  she  can  speak  to 
her  father  about  him.  The  spot  to  which  she  directs 
him  is  another  ideal  piece  of  landscape,  composed  of 
a  "beautiful  grove  of  aspen  poplars,  a  fountain,  and 
a  meadows"  ^  near  the  road-side  :  in  fact,  as  nearly  as 
possible  such  a  scene  as  meets  the  eye  of  the  traveller 
every  instant  on  the  much-despised  lines  of  road 
through  lowland  France;  for  instance,  on  the  railway 
between  Arras  and  Amiens;  —  scenes,  to  my  mind, 
quite  exquisite  in  the  various  grouping  and  grace  of 
their  innumerable  poplar  avenues,  casting  sweet,  trem- 
ulous shadows  over  their  level  meadow^s  and  labyrin- 
thine streams.  We  know  that  the  princess  means  aspen 
poplars,  because  soon  afterwards  we  find  her  fifty 
maid-servants  at  the  palace,  all  spinning  and  in  per- 
petual motion,  compared  to  the  "leaves  of  the  tall 
poplar " ;  and  it  is  with  exquisite  feeling  that  it  is 
made  afterwards^  the  chief  tree  in  the  groves  of  Pro- 
serpine; its  light  and  quivering  leafage  having  exactly 
the  melancholy  expression  of  fragility,  faintness,  and 
inconstancy  which  the  ancients  attributed  to  the  dis- 
embodied spirit.^  The  likeness  to  the  poplars  by  the 
streams  of  Amiens  is  more  marked  still  in  the  Iliads 
where  the  young  Simois,  struck  by  Ajax,  falls  to  the 
earth  "like  an  aspen  that  has  growm  in  an  irrigated 
meadow,  smooth-trunked,  the  soft  shoots  springing 
from  its  top,  which  some  coach-making  man  has  cut 
down  with  his  keen  iron,  that  he  may  fit  a  wheel  of  it  to 
a  fair  chariot,  and  it  lies  parching  by  the  side  of  the 
stream."  ^  It  is  sufficiently  notable  that  Homer,  living 
in  mountainous  and  rocky  countries,  dwells  thus  de- 

'  Odyssey,  6.  291-292. 

2  Odyssey,  10.  510.     [Ruskin.] 

3  Compare  the  passage  in  Dante  referred  to  above,  p.  60.  [Ruskin.] 

*  Iliad,  4.  482-487. 


OF  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  95 

Ughtedly  on  all  the  flat  bits;  and  so  I  tnink  invariably 
the  inhabitants  of  mountain  countries  do,  but  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  plains  do  not,  in  any  similar  way,  dwell 
delightedly  on  mountains.  The  Dutch  painters  are  per- 
fectly contented  with  their  flat  fields  and  pollards;^ 
Rubens,  though  he  had  seen  the  Alps,  usually  composes 
his  landscapes  of  a  hayfield  or  two,  plenty  of  pollards 
and  willows,  a  distant  spire,  a  Dutch  house  with  a  moat 
about  it,  a  windmill,  and  a  ditch.  The  Flemish  sacred 
painters  are  the  only  ones  who  introduce  mountains  in 
the  distance,  as  we  shall  see  presently;  but  rather  in  a 
formal  way  than  with  any  appearance  of  enjoyment. 
So  Shakspere  never  speaks  of  mountains  with  the 
slightest  joy,  but  only  of  lowland  flowers,  flat  fields,  and 
Warwickshire  streams.  And  if  we  talk  to  the  moun- 
taineer, he  will  usually  characterize  his  own  country  to 
us  as  a  "paj^s  affreux,"  or  in  some  equivalent,  perhaps 
even  more  violent,  German  term :  but  the  lowland 
peasant  does  not  think  his  country  frightful ;  he  either 
will  have  no  ideas  beyond  it,  or  about  it ;  or  will  think  it 
a  very  perfect  country,  and  be  apt  to  regard  any  devia- 
tion from  its  general  principle  of  flatness  with  extreme 
disfavour;  as  the  Lincolnshire  farmer  in  Alton  Locke: 
"  I  '11  shaw  'ee  some'at  like  a  field  o'  beans,  I  wool  — 
none  o'  this  here  darned  ups  and  downs  o'  hills,  to  shake 
a  body's  victuals  out  of  his  inwards  —  all  so  vlat  as  a 
barn's  vloor,  for  vorty  mile  on  end  —  there 's  the  coun- 
try to  live  in ! "  ^ 

I  do  not  say  whether  this  be  altogether  right  (though 
certainly  not  wholly  wrong),  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
there  must  be  in  the  simple  freshness  and  fruitfulness  of 

'  Pollards,  trees  polled  or  cut  back  at  some  heif^ht  above  the 
ground,  producing  a  thick  growth  of  young  branches  in  a  rounded 
mass. 

^  Quoted,  with  some  omission,  from  chapter  12. 


96  MODERN   PAINTERS 

level  land,  in  its  pale  upright  trees,  and  gentle  lapse  of 
silent  streams,  enough  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  human 
mind  in  general;  and  I  so  far  agree  with  Homer,  that, 
if  I  had  to  educate  an  artist  to  the  full  perception  of 
the  meaning  of  the  word  "gracefulness"  in  landscape, 
1  should  send  him  neither  to  Italy  nor  to  Greece, 
but  simply  to  those  poplar  groves  between  Arras  and 
Amiens. 

But  to  return  more  definitely  to  our  Homeric  land- 
scape. When  it  is  perfect,  we  have,  as  in  the  above 
instances,  the  foliage  and  meadows  together;  when  im- 
perfect, it  is  always  either  the  foliage  or  the  meadow; 
pre-eminently  the  meadow,  or  arable  field.  Thus,  mead- 
ows of  asphodel  are  prepared  for  the  happier  dead; 
and  even  Orion,  a  hunter  among  the  mountains  in  his 
lifetime,  pursues  the  ghosts  of  beasts  in  these  asphodel 
meadows  after  death. ^  So  the  sirens  sing  in  a  meadow ;  ^ 
and  throughout  the  Odyssey  there  is  a  general  tendency 
to  the  depreciation  of  poor  Ithaca,  because  it  is  rocky, 
and  only  fit  for  goats,  and  has  "  no  meadows  " ;  ^  for 
which  reason  Telemachus  refuses  Atrides's  present  of 
horses,  congratulating  the  Spartan  king  at  the  same 
time  on  ruling  over  a  plain  which  has  "plenty  of  lotus 
in  it,  and  rushes,"  with  corn  and  barley.  Note  this  con- 
stant dwelling  on  the  marsh  plants,  or,  at  least,  those 
w^hich  grow  in  flat  and  well-irrigated  land,  or  beside 
streams :  when  Scamander,  for  instance,  is  restrained 
by  Vulcan,  Homer  says,  very  sorro\s'fully,  that  "  all  his 
lotus,  and  reeds,  and  rushes  were  burnt " ;  ^  and  thus 
Ulysses,  after  being  shipwrecked  and  nearly  drowned, 

^  Odyssey,  11.  572;    24.  13.    The  couch  of  Ceres,  with  Homer's 
usual  faithfulness,  is  made  of  a  ploughed  field,  5.  127.    [Ruskin.] 

2  Odyssey,  12.  45. 

3  Odyssey,  4.  605. 

4  Iliad,  21.  351. 


OF   CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  97 

and  beaten  about  the  sea  for  many  days  and  nights,  on 
raft  and  mast,  at  last  getting  ashore  at  the  mouth  of  a 
large  river,  casts  himself  down  first  upon  its  rushes,  and 
then,  in  thankfulness,  kisses  the  "corn-giving  land," 
as  most  opposed,  in  his  heart,  to  the  fruitless  and 
devouring  sea.^ 

In  this  same  passage,  also,  we  find  some  peculiar 
expressions  of  the  delight  which  the  Greeks  had  in 
trees;  for,  when  Ulysses  first  comes  in  sight  of  land, 
which  gladdens  him  "as  the  reviving  of  a  father  from 
his  sickness  gladdens  his  children,"  it  is  not  merely  the 
sight  of  the  land  itself  which  gives  him  such  pleasure, 
but  of  the  "  land  and  wood''  Homer  never  throws  away 
any  words,  at  least  in  such  a  place  as  this ;  and  what  in 
another  poet  would  have  been  merely  the  filling  up  of 
the  deficient  line  with  an  otherwise  useless  word,  is  in 
him  the  expression  of  the  general  Greek  sense,  that  land 
of  any  kind  was  in  no  wise  grateful  or  acceptable  till 
there  was  wood  upon  it  (or  corn;  but  the  corn,  in  the 
flats,  could  not  be  seen  so  far  as  the  black  masses  of 
forest  on  the  hill  sides),  and  that,  as  in  being  rushy  and 
corn-giving,  the  low  land,  so  in  being  woody,  the  high 
land  was  most  grateful  to  the  mind  of  the  man  who  for 
days  and  nights  had  been  wearied  on  the  engulphing 
sea.  And  this  general  idea  of  wood  and  corn,  as  the 
types  of  the  fatness  of  the  whole  earth,  is  beautifully 
marked  in  another  place  of  the  Odyssey,^  where  the 
sailors  in  a  desert  island,  having  no  flour  of  corn  to 
offer  as  a  meat  offering  with  their  sacrifices,  take  the 
leaves  of  the  trees,  and  scatter  them  over  the  burn! 
offering  instead. 

But  still,  every  expression  of  the  pleasure  which 

1  Odyssey,  5.  398,  463.    [Ruskin.] 

2  Odyssey,  12.  357.     [Ruskin.] 


98  MODERN  PAINTERS 

Ulysses  has  in  this  landing  and  resting,  contains  un- 
interruptedly  the  reference  to  the  utility  and  sensible 
pleasantness  of  all  things,  not  to  their  beauty.  After 
his  first  grateful  kiss  given  to  the  corn-growing  land, 
he  considers  immediately  how  he  is  to  pass  the  night; 
for  some  minutes  hesitating  whether  it  will  be  best  to 
expose  himself  to  the  misty  chill  from  the  river,  or  run 
the  risk  of  wild  beasts  in  the  wood.  He  decides  for  the 
wood,  and  finds  in  it  a  bower  formed  by  a  sweet  and 
a  wild  olive  tree,  interlacing  their  branches,  or  —  per- 
haps more  accurately  translating  Homer's  intensely 
graphic  expression  —  "changing  their  branches  w^ith 
each  other"  (it  is  very  curious  how  often,  in  an  entan- 
glement of  wood,  one  supposes  the  branches  to  belong 
to  the  wrong  trees)  and  forming  a  roof  penetrated  by 
neither  rain,  sun,  nor  wind.  Under  this  bower  Ulysses 
collects  the  "  vain  (or  frustrate)  outpouring  of  the  dead 
leaves" — another  exquisite  expression,  used  else- 
where of  useless  grief  or  shedding  of  tears ;  —  and,  hav- 
ing got  enough  together,  makes  his  bed  of  them,  and 
goes  to  sleep,  having  covered  himself  up  with  them,  "  as 
embers  are  covered  up  with  ashes."  ^ 

Nothing  can  possibly  be  more  intensely  possessive  of 
the  facts  than  this  whole  passage;  the  sense  of  utter 
deadness  and  emptiness,  and  frustrate  fall  in  the  leaves ; 
of  dormant  life  in  the  human  body,  —  the  fire,  and 
heroism,  and  strength  of  it,  lulled  under  the  dead  brown 
heap,  as  embers  under  ashes,  and  the  knitting  of  inter- 
changed and  close  strength  of  living  boughs  above.  But 
there  is  not  the  smallest  apparent  sense  of  there  being 
beauty  elsewhere  than  in  the  human  being.  The 
wreathed  wood  is  admired  simply  as  being  a  perfect 
roof  for  it ;  the  fallen  leaves  only  as  being  a  perfect  bed 
»  Odyssey,  5.  481-493. 


OF  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPE  99 

for  it ;  and  there  is  literally  no  more  excitement  of  emo- 
tion in  Homer,  as  he  describes  them,  nor  does  he 
expect  us  to  be  more  excited  or  touched  by  hearing 
about  them,  than  if  he  had  been  telling  us  how  the 
chambermaid  at  the  Bull  aired  the  four-poster,  and  put 
on  two  extra  blankets. 

Now,  exactly  this  same  contemplation  of  subservi- 
ence to  human  use  makes  the  Greek  take  some  plea- 
sure in  rocks,  when  they  assume  one  particular  form, 
but  one  only  —  that  of  a  cave.  They  are  evidently 
quite  frightful  things  to  him  under  any  other  condition, 
and  most  of  all  if  they  are  rough  and  jagged ;  but  if 
smooth,  looking  "sculptured,"  like  the  sides  of  a  ship, 
and  forming  a  cave  or  shelter  for  him,  he  begins  to 
think  them  endurable.  Hence,  associating  the  ideas  of 
rich  and  sheltering  wood,  sea,  becalmed  and  made  use- 
ful as  a  port  by  protecting  promontories  of  rock,  and 
smoothed  caves  or  grottoes  in  the  rocks  themselves,  w^e 
get  the  pleasantest  idea  which  the  Greek  could  form  of 
a  landscape,  next  to  a  marsh  with  poplars  in  it;  not, 
indeed,  if  possible,  ever  to  be  without  these  last ;  thus, 
in  commending  the  Cyclops'  country  as  one  possessed 
of  every  perfection.  Homer  first  says :  "  They  have  soft 
marshy  meadows  near  the  sea,  and  good,  rich,  crum- 
bling, ploughing-land,  giving  fine  deep  crops,  and  vines 
always  giving  fruit";  then,  "a  port  so  quiet,  that  they 
have  no  need  of  cables  in  it;  and  at  the  head  of  the 
port,  a  beautiful  clear  spring  just  under  a  cave,  and 
aspen  poplars  all  round  it."  ^ 

This,  it  will  be  seen,  is  very  nearly  Homer's  usual 

^  Odyssey,  9.  132,  etc.   Hence  Milton's 

From  haunted  sprino;,  and  dale, 
Edited  with  poplar  pale.  [Ruskin.] 

Hymn  on  The  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity,  184-185. 


100  MODERN   PAINTERS 

"ideal";  but,  going  into  the  middle  of  the  island, 
Ulysses  comes  on  a  rougher  and  less  agreeable  bit, 
though  still  fulfilling  certain  required  conditions  of 
endural)leness;  a  "cave  shaded  with  laurels,"  ^  which, 
having  no  poplars  about  it,  is,  however,  meant  to  be 
somewhat  frightful,  and  only  fit  to  be  inhabited  by  a 
Cyclops.  So  in  the  country  of  the  Lsestrygons,  Homer, 
preparing  his  reader  gradually  for  something  very  dis- 
agreeable, represents  the  rocks  as  bare  and  "exposed 
to  the  sun  "  ;  ^  only  with  some  smooth  and  slippery  roads 
over  them,  by  which  the  trucks  bring  down  wood  from 
the  higher  hills.  x\ny  one  familiar  with  Swiss  slopes 
of  hills  must  remember  how  often  he  has  descended, 
sometimes  faster  than  was  altogether  intentional,  by 
these  same  slippery  woodman's  truck  roads. 

And  thus,  in  general,  whenever  the  landscape  is 
intended  to  be  lovely,  it  verges  towards  the  ploughed 
lands  and  poplars ;  or,  at  worst,  to  woody  rocks ;  but,  if 
intended  to  be  painful,  the  rocks  are  bare  and  "  sharp." 
This  last  epithet,  constantly  used  by  Homer  for  moun- 
tains, does  not  altogether  correspond,  in  Greek,  to  the 
English  term,  nor  is  it  intended  merely  to  characterize 
the  sharp  mountain  summits;  for  it  never  would  be 
applied  simply  to  the  edge  or  point  of  a  sword,  but  sig- 
nifies rather  "harsh,"  "bitter,"  or  "painful,"  being 
applied  habitually  to  fate,  death,  and  in  Odyssey  xi. 
333,  to  a  halter;  and,  as  expressive  of  general  objec- 
tionableness  and  unpleasantness,  to  all  high,  danger- 
ous, or  peaked  mountains,  as  the  Maleian  promon- 
tory (a  much-dreaded  one),  the  crest  of  Parnassus, 
the  Tereian  mountain,  and  a  grim  or  untoward,  though, 
by  keeping  off  the  force  of  the  sea,  protective,  rock 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Jardanus;  as  well  as  habitually 
»  Odyssey,  9.  182.  ^  Odyssey,  10.  87-88. 


OF   CLASSICAI,   LANDSCAPE  101 

to  inaccessible  or  impregnable  fortresses  built  on 
heights. 

In  all  this  I  cannot  too  strongly  mark  the  utter 
absence  of  any  trace  of  the  feeling  for  what  we  call  the 
picturesque,  and  the  constant  dwelling  of  the  writer's 
mind  on  what  was  available,  pleasant,  or  useful ;  his 
ideas  respecting  all  landscape  being  not  uncharacteristi- 
cally summed,  finally,  by  Pallas  herself ;  when,  meeting 
Ulysses,  who  after  his  long  wandering  does  not  recog- 
nize his  own  country,  and  meaning  to  describe  it  as 
politely  and  soothingly  as  possible,  she  says :  ^  —  "  This 
Ithaca  of  ours  is,  indeed,  a  rough  country  enough,  and 
not  good  for  driving  in;  but,  still,  things  might  be 
worse:  it  has  plenty  of  corn,  and  good  wine,  and 
always  rain,  and  soft  nourishing  dew;  and  it  has  good 
feeding  for  goats  and  oxen,  and  all  manner  of  wood, 
and  springs  fit  to  drink  at  all  the  year  round." 

We  shall  see  presently  how  the  blundering,  pseudo- 
picturesque,  pseudo-classical  minds  of  Claude  and  the 
Renaissance  landscape-painters,  wholly  missing  Ho- 
mer's practical  common  sense,  and  equally  incapable 
of  feeling  the  quiet  natural  grace  and  sweetness  of  his 
asphodel  meadows,  tender  aspen  poplars,  or  running 
vines,  —  fastened  on  his  forts  and  caves,  as  the  only 
available  features  of  his  scenery;  and  appointed  the 
type  of  "classical  landscape"  thenceforward  to  consist 
in  a  bay  of  insipid  sea,  and  a  rock  with  a  hole  through 
it.=^ 

It  may  indeed  be  thought  that  I  am  assuming  too 
hastily  that  this  was  the  general  view  of  the  Greeks 


^  Odyssey,  13.  236,  etc.     [Ruskin.] 

^  Educated,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  first  in  this  school.  Turner 
pjave  the  hackneyed  composition  a  strange  power  and  freshness,  in  his 
Glaucus  and  Scylla.    [Ruskin.] 


l(i«  MODERN  PAINTERS 

respecting  landscape,  because  it  was  Homer's.  But  I 
believe  the  true  mind  of  a  nation,  at  any  period,  is 
always  best  ascertainable  by  examining  that  of  its 
greatest  men ;  and  that  simpler  and  truer  results  will  be 
attainable  for  us  by  simply  comparing  Homer,  Dante, 
and  Walter  Scott,  than  by  attempting  (what  my  limits 
must  have  rendered  absurdly  inadequate,  and  ia  which, 
also,  both  m}^  time  and  knowledge  must  have  failed 
me)  an  analysis  of  the  landscape  in  the  range  of  con- 
temporary literature.  All  that  I  can  do,  is  to  state  the 
general  impression,  which  has  been  made  upon  me  by 
my  desultory  reading,  and  to  mark  accurately  the 
grounds  for  this  impression  in  the  works  of  the  greatest 
men.  Now  it  is  quite  true  that  in  others  of  the  Greeks, 
especially  in  ^schylus  and  Aristophanes,  there  is 
infinitely  more  of  modern  feeling,  of  pathetic  fallacy, 
love  of  picturesque  or  beautiful  form,  and  other  such 
elements,  than  there  is  in  Homer ;  but  then  these  appear 
to  me  just  the  parts  of  them  which  were  not  Greek,  the 
elements  of  their  minds  by  which  (as  one  division  of  the 
human  race  always  must  be  with  subsequent  ones)  they 
are  connected  with  the  medisevals  and  moderns.  And 
without  doubt,  in  his  influence  over  future  mankind. 
Homer  is  eminently  the  Greek  of  Greeks :  if  I  were  to 
associate  any  one  with  him  it  would  be  Herodotus,  and 
I  believe  all  I  have  said  of  the  Homeric  landscape  will 
be  found  equally  true  of  the  Herodotean,  as  assuredly 
it  will  be  of  the  Platonic ;  —  the  contempt,  which  Plato 
sometimes  expresses  by  the  mouth  of  Socrates,  for  the 
country  in  general,  except  so  far  as  it  is  shady,  and  has 
cicadas  and  running  streams  to  make  pleasant  noises  in 
it,  being  almost  ludicrous.  But  Homer  is  the  great  type, 
and  the  more  notable  one  because  of  his  influence  on 
Virgil,  and,  through  him,  on  Dante,  and  all  the  after 


OF    CLASSICAL    LANDSCAPE  103 

ages :  and,  in  like  manner,  if  we  can  get  the  abstract  of 
mediaeval  landscape  out  of  Dante,  it  will  serve  us  as 
well  as  if  we  had  read  all  the  songs  of  the  troubadours, 
and  help  us  to  the  farther  changes  in  derivative  temper, 
down  to  all  modern  time. 

I  think,  therefore,  the  reader  may  safely  accept  the 
conclusions  about  Greek  landscape  which  I  have  got  for 
him  out  of  Homer ;  and  in  these  he  will  certainly  per- 
ceive something  very  different  from  the  usual  imagina- 
tions we  form  of  Greek  feelings.  We  think  of  the  Greeks 
as  poetical,  ideal,  imaginative,  in  the  way  that  a  modern 
poet  or  novelist  is;  supposing  that  their  thoughts 
about  their  mythology  and  world  were  as  visionary  and 
artificial  as  ours  are :  but  I  think  the  passages  I  have 
quoted  show  that  it  was  not  so,  although  it  may  be  dif- 
ficult for  us  to  apprehend  the  strange  minglings  in 
them  of  the  elements  of  faith,  which,  in  our  days,  have 
been  blended  with  other  parts  of  human  nature  in  a 
totally  different  guise,  j  J^erhaps  the  Greek  mind  may  be 
best  imagined  by  takihg,  as  its  groundwork,  that  of  a 
good,  conscientious,  but  illiterate  Scotch  Presbyterian 
Border  farmer  of  a  century  or  two  back,  having  perfect 
faith  in  the  bodily  appearances  of  Satan  and  his  imps ; 
and  in  all  kelpies,  brownies,  and  fairies.  Substitute  for 
the  indignant  terrors  in  this  man's  mind,  a  general  per- 
suasion of  the  Divinity,  more  or  less  beneficent,  yet 
faultful,  of  all  these  beings ;  that  is  to  say,  take  away  his 
belief  in  the  demoniacal  malignity  of  the  fallen  spiritual 
world,  and  lower,  in  the  same  degree,  his  conceptions 
of  the  angelical,  retaining  for  him  the  same  firm  faith 
in  both;  keep  his  ideas  about  flowers  and  beautiful 
scenery  much  as  they  are,  —  his  delight  in  regular 
ploughed  land  and  meadows,  and  a  neat  garden  (only 
with  rows  of  gooseberry  bushes  instead  of  vines),  being, 


104  MODERN   PAINTERS 

in  all  probability,  about  accurately  representative  of  the 
feelings  of  Ulysses ;  then,  let  the  military  spirit  that  is  in 
him,  glowing  against  the  Border  forager,  or  the  foe  of 
old  Flodden  and  Chevy- Chase,'  be  made  more  princi- 
pal, with  a  higher  sense  of  nobleness  in  soldiership,  not 
as  a  careless  excitement,  but  a  knightly  duty;  and 
increased  by  high  cultivation  of  every  personal  quality, 
not  of  mere  shaggy  strength,  but  graceful  strength, 
aided  by  a  softer  climate,  and  educated  in  all  proper 
harmony  of  sight  and  sound:  finally,  instead  of  an 
informed  Christian,  suppose  him  to  have  only  the 
patriarchal  Jewish  knowledge  of  the  Deity,  and  even 
this  obscured  by  tradition,  but  still  thoroughly  solemn 
and  faithful,  requiring  his  continual  service  as  a  priest 
of  burnt  sacrifice  and  meat  offering;  and  I  think  we 
shall  get  a  pretty  close  approximation  to  the  vital  being 
of  a  true  old  Greek;  some  slight  difference  still  existing 
in  a  feeling  which  the  Scotch  farmer  would  have  of  a 
pleasantness  in  blue  hills  and  running  streams,  wholly 
wanting  in  the  Greek  mind ;  and  perhaps  also  some  dif- 
ference of  views  on  the  subjects  of  truth  and  honesty. 
But  the  main  points,  the  easy,  athletic,  strongly  logical 
and  argumentative,  yet  fanciful  and  credulous,  char- 
acters of  mind,  would  be  very  similar  in  both;  and  the 
most  serious  change  in  the  substance  of  the  stuff 
among  the  modifications  above  suggested  as  necessary 
to  turn  the  Scot  into  the  Greek,  is  that  effect  of  softer 
climate  and  surrounding  luxury,  inducing  the  practice 

^  Flodden,  Flodden  Field,  a  plain  in  Northumberland,  famous 
as  the  battlefield  where  James  IV  of  Scotland  was  defeated  by  an 
English  army  under  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  Sept.  9,  1513.  The  sixth 
canto  of  Scott's  Marmion  gives  a  fairly  accurate  description  of  the 
action. 

Chevy-Chase,  a  famous  old  English  ballad  recounting  the  inci- 
dents of  the  battle  of  Otterburn  [Aug.  19,  1388]  in  which  the  Scots 
under  the  Earl  of  Douglas  defeated  the  Euijlish  under  the  Percies. 


OF    MODERN   LANDSCAPE  105 

of  various  forms  of  polished  art,  —  the  more  poHshed, 
because  the  practical  and  realistic  tendency  of  the  Hel- 
lenic mind  (if  my  interpretation  of  it  be  right)  would 
quite  prevent  it  from  taking  pleasure  in  any  irregulari- 
ties of  form,  or  imitations  of  the  weeds  and  wildnesses 
of  that  mountain  nature  with  which  it  thought  itself 
born  to  contend. /^'In  its  utmost  refinement  of  work,  it 
sought  eminently  for  orderliness ;  carried  the  principle 
of  the  leeks  in  squares,  and  fountains  in  pipes,  per- 
fectly out  in  its  streets  and  temples ;  formalized  what- 
ever decoration  it  put  into  its  minor  architectural 
mouldings,  and  reserved  its  whole  heart  and  power  to 
represent  the  action  of  living  men,  or  gods,  though  not 
unconscious,  meanwhile,  of 

The  simple,  the  sincere  delight; 

The  habitual  scene  of  hill  and  dale; 

The  rural  herds,  the  vernal  gale; 

The  tangled  vetches'  purple  bloom; 

The  fragrance  of  the  bean's  perfume, — 

Theirs,  theirs  alone,  who  cultivate  the  soil. 

And  drink  the  cup  of  thirst,  and  eat  the  bread  of  toil.^ 


OF  MODERN  LANDSCAPE 
Volume  III,  Chapter  16 

We  turn  our  eyes,  therefore,  as  boldly  and  as 
quickly  as  may  be,  from  these  serene  fields  and  skies 
of  mediaeval  art,  to  the  most  characteristic  examples  of 
modern  landscape.  And,  I  believe,  the  first  thing  that 
will  strike  us,  or  that  ought  to  strike  us,  is  their  cloudi- 
ness, 

^  Shenstone's  Rural  Elegance,  201  ff.,  quoted  with  some  slight 
inaccuracies. 


106  MODERN  PAINTERS 

Out  of  perfect  light  and  motionless  air,  we  find  our- 
selves on  a  sudden  brought  under  sombre  skies,  and 
into  drifting  wind ;  and,  with  fickle  sunbeams  flashing 
in  our  face,  or  utterly  drenched  with  sweep  of  rain,  we 
are  reduced  to  track  the  changes  of  the  shadows  on  the 
grass,  or  watch  the  rents  of  twilight  through  angry 
cloud.  And  we  find  that  whereas  all  the  pleasure  of  the 
mediaeval  was  in  stability,  definiteness,  and  luminous- 
ncss,  we  are  expected  to  rejoice  in  darkness,  and  tri- 
umph in  mutability ;  to  lay  the  foundation  of  happiness 
in  things  which  momentarily  change  or  fade;  and  to 
expect  the  utmost  satisfaction  and  instruction  from 
what  it  is  impossible  to  arrest,  and  difficult  to  compre- 
hend. 

We  find,  however,  together  with  this  general  delight 
in  breeze  and  darkness,  much  attention  to  the  real  form 
of  clouds,  and  careful  drawing  of  effects  of  mist ;  so  that 
the  appearance  of  objects,  as  seen  through  it,  becomes  a 
subject  of  science  with  us ;  and  the  faithful  representa- 
tion of  that  appearance  is  made  of  primal  importance, 
under  the  name  of  aerial  perspective.  The  aspects  of 
sunset  and  sunrise,  with  all  their  attendant  phenomena 
of  cloud  and  mist,  are  watchfully  delineated ;  and  in 
ordinary  daylight  landscape,  the  sky  is  considered  of  so 
much  importance,  that  a  principal  mass  of  foliage,  or  a 
whole  foreground,  is  unhesitatingly  thrown  into  shade 
merely  to  bring  out  the  form  of  a  white  cloud.  So  that, 
if  a  general  and  characteristic  name  were  needed  for 
modern  landscape  art,  none  better  could  be  invented 
than  "the  service  of  clouds." 

And  this  name  would,  unfortunately,  be  characteris- 
tic of  our  art  in  more  ways  than  one.  In  the  last  chap- 
ter, I  said  that  all  the  Greeks  spoke  kindly  about  the 
clouds,  except  Aristophanes ;  and  he,  I  am  sorry  to  say 


OF  MODERN  LANDSCAPE  107 

(since  his  report  is  so  unfavourable),  is  the  only  Greek 
who  had  studied  them  attentively.  He  tells  us,  first, 
that  they  are  *' great  goddesses  to  idle  men";  then, that 
they  are  "mistresses  of  disputings,  and  logic,  and 
monstrosities,  and  noisy  chattering";  declares  that 
whoso  believes  in  their  divinity  must  first  disbelieve  in 
Jupiter,  and  place  supreme  power  in  the  hands  of  an 
unknown  god  "Whirlwind";  and,  finally,  he  displays 
their  influence  over  the  mind  of  one  of  their  disciples,  in 
his  sudden  desire  "to  speak  ingeniously  concerning 
smoke."  ^ 

There  is,  I  fear,  an  infinite  truth  in  this  Aristophanic 
judgment  applied  to  our  modern  cloud-worship.  As- 
suredly, much  of  the  love  of  mystery  in  our  romances, 
our  poetry,  our  art,  and,  above  all,  in  our  metaphysics, 
must  come  under  that  definition  so  long  ago  given 
by  the  great  Greek,  "  speaking  ingeniously  concerning 
smoke."  And  much  of  the  instinct,  which,  partially 
developed  in  painting,  may  be  now  seen  throughout 
every  mode  of  exertion  of  mind,  —  the  easily  encour- 
aged doubt,  easily  excited  curiosity,  habitual  agitation, 
and  delight  in  the  changing  and  the  marvellous,  as  op- 
posed to  the  old  quiet  serenity  of  social  custom  and 
religious  faith,  —  is  again  deeply  defined  in  those  few 
words,  the  "dethroning  of  Jupiter,"  the  "coronation  of 
the  whirlwind." 

Nor  of  whirlwind  merely,  but  also  of  darkness  or 
ignorance  respecting  all  stable  facts.  That  darkening  of 
the  foreground  to  bring  out  the  white  cloud,  is,  in  one 
aspect  of  it,  a  type  of  the  subjection  of  all  plain  and  posi- 
tive fact,  to  what  is  uncertain  and  unintelligible.  And, 
as  we  examine  farther  into  the  matter,  we  shall  be 
struck  by  another  great  difference  between  the  old  and 
1  Clouds,  316-318;  380  ff.;  320-321. 


108  MODERN   PAINTERS 

modern  landscape,  namely,  that  in  the  old  no  one  ever 
thought  of  drawing  anything  but  as  well  as  he  could. 
That  might  not  be  well,  as  we  have  seen  in  the  case 
of  rocks;  but  it  was  as  well  as  he  could,  and  always  dis- 
tinctly. Leaf,  or  stone,  or  animal,  or  man,  it  was  equally 
drawn  with  care  and  clearness,  and  its  essential  char- 
acters shown.  If  it  was  an  oak  tree,  the  acorns  were 
drawn ;  if  a  flint  pebble,  its  veins  were  drawn ;  if  an 
arm  of  !:he  sea,  its  fish  were  drawn ;  if  a  group  of  figures, 
their  faces  and  dresses  were  drawn  —  to  the  very  last 
subtlety  of  expression  and  end  of  thread  that  could  be 
got  into  the  space,  far  off  or  near.  But  now  our  ingenu- 
ity is  all  "concerning  smoke."  Nothing  is  truly  drawn 
but  that;  all  else  is  vague,  slight,  imperfect;  got  with 
as  little  pains  as  possible.  You  examine  your  closest 
foreground,  and  find  no  leaves ;  your  largest  oak,  and 
find  no  acorns ;  your  human  figure,  and  find  a  spot  of 
red  paint  instead  of  a  face ;  and  in  all  this,  again  and 
again,  the  Aristophanic  words  come  true,  and  the 
clouds  seem  to  be  "great  goddesses  to  idle  men." 

The  next'  thing  that  will  strike  us,  after  this  love  of 
clouds,  is  the  love  of  liberty.  Whereas  the  mediaeval 
was  always  shutting  himself  into  castles,  and  behind 
fosses,  and  drawing  brickwork  neatly,  and  beds  of 
flowers  primly,  our  painters  delight  in  getting  to  the 
open  fields  and  moors;  abhor  all  hedges  and  moats; 
never  paint  anything  but  free-growing  trees,  and  rivers 
gliding  "at  their  own  sweet  Avill";  eschew  formality 
down  to  the  smallest  detail;  break  and  displace  the 
brickwork  which  the  mediaeval  w^ould  have  carefully 
cemented ;  leave  unpruned  the  thickets  he  would  have 
delicately  trimmed;  and,  carrying  the  love  of  liberty 
even  to  license,  and  the  love  of  wildness  even  to  ruin, 
take  pleasure  at  last  in  every  aspect  of  age  and  desola- 


OF  MODERN   LANDSCAPE  109 

tion  which  emancipates  the  objects  of  nature  from  the 
government  of  men  ;  —  on  the  castle  wall  displacing  its 
tapestry  with  ivy,  and  spreading,  through  the  garden, 
the  bramble  for  the  rose. 

Connected  with  this  love  of  liberty  we  find  a  singular 
manifestation  of  love  of  mountains,  and  see  our  painters 
traversing  the  wildest  places  of  the  globe  in  order  to 
obtain  subjects  with  craggy  foregrounds  and  purple  dis- 
tances. Some  few  of  them  remain  content  with  pollards 
and  flat  land;  but  these  are  always  men  of  third-rate 
order ;  and  the  leading  masters,  while  they  do  not  reject 
the  beauty  of  the  low  grounds,  reserve  their  highest 
powers  to  paint  Alpine  peaks  or  Italian  promontories. 
And  it  is  eminently  noticeable,  also,  that  this  pleasure 
in  the  mountains  is  never  mingled  with  fear,  or  tem- 
pered by  a  spirit  of  meditation,  as  with  the  mediaeval ; 
but  it  is  always  free  and  fearless,  brightly  exhilarating, 
and  wholly  unreflective;  so  that  the  painter  feels  that 
his  mountain  foreground  may  be  more  consistently  ani- 
mated by  a  sportsman  than  a  hermit ;  and  our  modern 
society  in  general  goes  to  the  mountains,  not  to  fast, 
but  to  feast,  and  leaves  their  glaciers  covered  with 
chicken-bones  and  egg-shells. 

Connected  with  this  want  of  any  sense  of  solemnity  in 
mountain  scenery,  is  a  general  profanity  of  temper  in 
regarding  all  the  rest  of  nature;  that  is  to  say,  a  total 
absence  of  faith  in  the  presence  of  any  deity  therein. 
Whereas  the  mediaeval  never  painted  a  cloud,  but  with 
the  purpose  of  placing  an  angel  in  it ;  and  a  Greek  never 
entered  a  wood  without  expecting  to  meet  a  god  in  it ; 
we  should  think  the  appearance  of  an  angel  in  the  cloud 
wholly  unnatural,  and  should  be  seriously  surprised  by 
meeting  a  god  anywhere.  Our  chief  ideas  about  the 
wood  are  connected  with  poaching.  We  have  no  belief 


110  MODERN   PAINTERS 

that  the  clouds  contain  more  than  so  many  inches  of 
rain  or  hail,  and  from  our  ponds  and  ditches  expect 
nothing  more  divine  than  ducks  and  watercresses. 

Finally  :  connected  with  this  profanity  of  temper  is  a 
strong  tendency  to  deny  the  sacred  element  of  colour, 
and  make  our  boast  in  blackness.  For  thou^jh  occasion- 
ally  glaring  or  violent,  modern  colour  is  on  the  whole 
eminently  sombre,  tending  continually  to  grey  or 
brown,  and  by  many  of  our  best  painters  consistently 
falsified,  with  a  confessed  pride  in  what  they  call  chaste 
or  subdued  tints;  so  that,  whereas  a  mediaeval  paints 
his  sky  bright  blue  and  his  foreground  bright  green, 
gilds  the  towers  of  his  castles,  and  clothes  his  figures 
with  purple  and  white,  we  paint  our  sky  grey,  our  fore- 
ground black,  and  our  foliage  brown,  and  think  that 
enough  is  sacrificed  to  the  sun  in  admitting  the  danger- 
ous brightness  of  a  scarlet  cloak  or  a  blue  jacket. 

These,  I  believe,  are  the  principal  points  which  ^vould 

strike  us  instantly,  if  we  were  to  be  brought  suddenly 

into  an  exhibition  of  modern  landscapes  out  of  a  room 

filled  with  mediaeval  work.   It  is  evident  that  there  are 

both  evil  and  good  in  this  change ;  but  how  much  evil, 

or  how  much  good,  we  can  only  estimate  by  considering, 

as  in  the  former  divisions  of  our  inquiry,  w^hat  are  the 

real  roots  of  the  habits  of  mind  which  have  caused  them. 

"  And  first,  it  is  evident  that  the  title  "  Dark  Ages," 

given  to  the  mediaeval  centuries,   is,   respecting  art, 

wholly  inapplicable.    They  were,  on  the  contrary,  the 

bright  ages;  ours  are  the  dark  ones,    i  do  not  mean 

metarphysieall jr~bTit •  irtgratiy .    They  were  the  ages  of 

/gold ;  ours  are  the  ages  of  umber. 

1     This  is  partly  mere  mistake  in  us;  we  build  brown 

I  brick  walls,  and  wear  brown  coats,  because  we  have 

Ibeen  blunderingly  taught  to  do  so,  and  go  on  doing  so 


OF  MODERN   LANDSCAPE  111 

mechanically.   There  is,  however,  also  some  cause  for 
the  change  in  our  own  tempers.    On  the  whole,  these 
are  much  sadder  ages  than  the  early  ones  ;  not  sadder  in 
a  noble  and  deep  way,  but  in  a  dim  wearied  way,  —  the 
way  of^e»muij-a>e^-  |"ud«d  intellect,  and  uncomfortrJjle- 
ness  of  soul  and  body.  The  Middle  Ages  had  their  wars 
and  agonies,  but  also  intense  delights.   Their  gold  was 
dashed  with  blood;  but  ours  is  sprinkled  with  dust,     i 
Their  life  was  inwoven  with  white  and  purple :  ours  is     i 
one  seamless  stuff  of  brown.   Not  that  we  are  without     i 
apparent  festivity,  but  festivity  more  or  less  forced, 
mistaken,  embittered,  incomplete  —  not  of  the  heart. 
How  wonderfully,  since  Shakspere's  time,  have  we  lost 
the  power  of  laughing  at  bad  jests !  The  very  finish  of 
our  wit  belies  our  gaiety.  j 

The  profoundest  reason  of  this  darkness  of  heart  is.  / 
I  believe,  our  want  of  faith.  1  There  never  ^et  was  a  gen-  ./ 
eration  of  men  (savage  or  civilized)  who,  taken  as  a/; 
body,  so  wofully  fulfilled  the  words  "  having  no  hope, 
and  without  God  in  the  world,"  ^  as  the  present  civilized 
European  race.  A  Red  Indian  or  Otaheitan  savage  has 
more  sense  of  a  Divine  existence  round  him,  or  govern- 
ment over  him,  than  the  plurality  of  refined  Londoners 
and  Parisians :  and  those  among  us  who  may  in  some 
sen'se  be  said  to  believe,  are  divided  almost  without 
exception  into  two  broad  classes,  Romanist  and  Puri- 
tan; who,  but  for  the  interference  of  the  unbelieving 
portions  of  society,  would,  either  of  them,  reduce  the 
other  sect  as  speedily  as  possible  to  ashes ;  the  Romanist 
having  always  done  so  whenever  he  could,  from  the 
beginning  of  their  separation,  and  the  Puritan  at  this 
time  holding  himself  in  complacent  expectation  of  the 
destruction  of  Rome  by  volcanic  fire.  Such  division  as 

*  Ephesians  ii,  12. 


112  MODERN  PAINTERS 

this  between  persons  nominally  of  one  religion,  that  is 
to  say,  believing  in  the  same  God,  and  the  same  Revela- 
tion, cannot  but  become  a  stumbling-block  of  the  grav- 
est kind  to  all  thoughtful  and  far-sighted  men,  —  a 
stumbling-block  which  they  can  only  surmount  under 

f^he  most  favourable  circumstances  of  early  education. 
IIiUAt'p,  nearly  all  our  powerful  men  in  this  age  of  the 
world  are  unbelievers;  the  best  of  them  in  doubt  and 
misery ;  the  worst  in  reckless  defiance ;  the  plurality,  in 
plodding  hesitation,  Idoing,  as  well  as  they  can,  what 
practical  work  lies  ready  to  their  hands.  Most  of  our 
scientific  men  are  in  this  last  class;  our  popular  authors 
either  set  themselves  definitely  against  all  religious 
form,  pleading  for  simple  truth  and  benevolence 
(Thackeray,  Dickens),  or  give  themselves  up  to  bitter 
and  fruitless  statement  of  facts  (De  Balzac),  or  surface- 
painting  (Scott),  or  careless  blasphemy,  sad  or  smiling 
(Byron,  Beranger).  Our  earnest  poets  and  deepest 
thinkers  are  doubtful  and  indignant  (Tennyson, 
Carlyle) ;  one  or  two,  anchored,  indeed,  but  anxious  or 
weeping  (Wordsworth,  Mrs.  Browning) ;  and  of  these 
two,  the  first  is  not  so  sure  of  his  anchor,  but  that  now 
and  then  it  drags  with  him,  even  to  make  him  cry 
out,  — 

Great  God,  I  had  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  some  creed  outworn; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn.^ 

In  politics,  religion  is  now  a  name;  in  art,  a  hypo- 
crisy or  affectation.  Over  German  religious  pictures 
the  inscription,  "  See  how  Pious  I  am,"  can  be  read  at  a 
glance  by  any  clear-sighted  person.  Over  French  and 
English  religious  pictures  the  inscription,  "See  how 
*  Wordsworth's  "  The  world  is  too  much  with  us." 


OF  MODERN  LANDSCAPE  US 

Impious  I  am,"  is  equally  legible.  All  sincere  and 
modest  art  is,  among  us,  profane.^ 

This  faithlessness  operates  among  us  according  to  our 
tempers,  producing  either  sadness  or  levity,  and  being 
the  ultimate  root  alike  of  our  discontents  and  of  our  wan- 
tonnesses.  It  is  marvellous  how  full  of  contradiction  it 
makes  us  :  we  are  first  dull,  and  seek  for  wild  and  lonely 
places  because  we  have  no  heart  for  the  garden ;  pre- 
sently w^e  recover  our  spirits, 'and  build  an  assembly 
room  among  the  mountains,  because  we  have  no  rever- 
ence for  the  desert.  I  do  not  know  if  there  be  game  on 
Sinai,  but  I  am  always  expecting  to  hear  of  some  one 's 
shooting  over  it. 

There  is,  however,  another,  and  a  more  innocent 
root  of  our  delight  in  wild  scenery. 

All  the  Renaissance  principles  of  art  tended,  as  I 
have  before  often  explained,  to  the  setting  Beauty 
above  Truth,  and  seeking  for  it  always  at  the  expense 
of  truth.  And  the  proper  punishment  of  such  pursuit  = — 
the  punishment  w^hich  all  the  laws  of  the  universe  ren- 
dered inevitable  —  was,  that  those  w^ho  thus  pursued 
I  beauty  should  wholly  lose  sight  of  beauty.  rAU  the 
tinkers  of  Ihe  age,  as  we  imw  previously,  dcolared 
that-Hr  did  n(jl  exist.  The  age  seconded  their  efforts, 
and  banished  beauty,  so  far  as  human  effort  could  suc- 
ceed in  doing  so,  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  the 
form  of  man.  To  powder  the  hair,  to  patch  the  cheek, 
to  hoop  the  body,  to  buckle  the  foot,  were  all  part  and 
parcel  of  the  same  system  which  reduced  streets  to 
brick  walls,  and  pictures  to  brown  stains.  One  desert 
of  Ugliness  was  extended  before  the  eyes  of  mankind ; 

^  Pre-Raphaelitism,  of  course,  excepted,  which  is  a  new  phase  of 
art,  in  no  wise  considered  in  this  chapter.  Blake  was  sincere,  but  full 
of  wild  creeds,  and  somewhat  diseased  in  brain.    [Ruskin.] 


154  MODERN   PAINTERS 

and  their  pursuit  of  the  beautiful,  so  recklessly  con- 
tinued, received  unexpected  consummation  in  high- 
heeled  shoes  and  periwigs,  —  Gower  Street,  and  Gaspar 
Poussin.^ 
\  Reaction  from  this  state  was  inevitable,  if  any  true 
I  life  was  left  in  the  races  of  mankind ;  and,  accordingly, 
1  though  still  forced,  by  rule  and  fashion,  to  the  pro- 
ducing and  w^earing  all  that  is  ugly,  men  steal  out, 
half-ashamed  of  themselves  for  doing  so,  to  the  fields 
and  mountains;  and,  finding  among  these  the  colour, 
and  liberty,  and  variety,  and  powder,  which  are  for  ever 
grateful  to  them,  delight  in  these  to  an  extent  never 
before  know^n  ;  rejoice  in  all  the  wildest  shattering  of  the 
mountain  side,  as  an  opposition  to  Gow^er  Street,  gaze 
in  a  rapt  manner  at  sunsets  and  sunrises,  to  see  there 
the  blue,  and  gold,  and  purple,  which  glow  for  them  no 
longer  on  knight's  armour  or  temple  porch ;  and  gather 
with  care  out  of  the  fields,  into  their  blotted  herbaria, 
the  flowers  which  the  five  orders  of  architecture  have 
banished  from  their  doors  and  casements. 

The  absence  of  care  for  personal  beauty,  which  is 
another  great  characteristic  of  the  age,  adds  to  this 
feeling  in  a  twofold  way :  first,  by  turning  all  reverent 
thoughts  away  from  human  nature;  and  making  us 
(think  of  men  as  ridiculous  or  ugly  creatures,  getting 
■  through  the  world  as  well  as  they  can,  and  spoiling  it  in 
doing  so ;  not  ruling  it  in  a  kingly  way  and  crowning  all 
its  loveliness.  In  the  Middle  Ages  hardly  anything  but 
Tice  could  be  caricatured,  because  virtue  was  always 
visibly  and  personally  noble :  now  virtue  itself  is  apt  to 
inhabit  such  poor  human  bodies,  that  no  aspect  of  it  is 

*  Gower  Street,  a  London  street  selected  as  typical  of  modern 
ugliness. 

Gaspar  Poussin  [1613-75],  a  French  landscape  painter,  of  the 
pseudo-classical  school. 


OF  MODERN   LANDSCAPE  115 

invulnerable  to  jest ;  and  for  all  fairness  we  have  to  seek 
to  the  flowers,  for  all  sublimity,  to  the  hills. 

The  same  want  of  care  operates,  in  another  way,  by 
lowering  the  standard  of  health,  increasing  the  sus- 
ceptibility to  nervous  or  sentimental  impressions,  and 
thus  adding  to  the  other  powers  of  nature  over  us  what- 
ever charm  may  be  felt  in  her  fostering  the  melancholy 
fancies  of  brooding  idleness. 

It  is  not,  however,  only  to  existing  inanimate  nature 
that  our  want  of  beauty  in  person  and  dress  has  driven 
us.  The  imagination  of  it,  as  it  was  seen  in  our  ances- 
tors, kaunts  us  continually ;  and  while  we  yield  to  the 
present  fashions,  or  act  in  accordance  with  the  dullest 
modern  principles  of  economy  and  utility,  we  look 
fondly  back  to  the  manners  of  the  ages  of  chivalry,  and 
delight  in  painting,  to  the  fancy,  the  fashions  we  pre- 
tend to  despise,  and  the  splendours  w^e  think  it  wise  to 
abandon.  The  furniture  and  personages  of  our  romance 
are  sought,  when  the  writer  desires  to  please  most  easily, 
in  the  centuries  which  we  profess  to  have  surpassed  in 
everything ;  the  art  which  takes  us  into  the  present  times 
is  considered  as  both  daring  and  degraded ;  and  while 
the  weakest  words  please  us,  and  are  regarded  as 
poetry,  which  recall  the  manners  of  our  forefathers,  or 
of  strangers,  it  is  only  as  familiar  and  vulgar  that  we 
accept  the  description  of  our  own. 

In  this  we  are  wholly  different  from  all  the  races  that 
preceded  us.  All  other  nations  have  regarded  their 
ancestors  with  reverence  as  saints  or  heroes ;  but  have 
nevertheless  thought  their  own  deeds  and  ways  of  life 
the  fitting  subjects  for  their  arts  of  painting  or  of 
\rerse.  We,  on  the  contrary,  regard  our  ancestors  as 
foolish  and  wicked,  but  yet  find  our  chief  artistic  plea- 
sures in  descriptions  of  their  ways  of  life. 


116  MODERN   PAINTERS 

/  The  Greeks  and  medisevals  honoured,  but  did  not 
I  imitate  their  forefathers ;  we  imitate,  but  do  not  honour. 
^  With  this  romantic  love  of  beauty,  forced  to  seek  in 
history,  and  in  external  nature,  the  satisfaction  it  can- 
not find  in  ordinary  life,  we  mingle  a  more  rational  pas- 
sion, the  due  and  just  result  of  newly  awakened  powers 
of  attention.  Whatever  may  first  lead  us  to  the  scrutiny 
of  natural  objects,  that  scrutiny  never  fails  of  its  reward. 
Unquestionably  they  are  intended  to  be  regarded  by  us 
with  both  reverence  and  delight;  and  every  hour  we 
give  to  them  renders  their  beauty  more  apparent,  and 
their  interest  more  engrossing.  Natural  science  — ■ 
which  can  hardly  be  considered  to  have  existed  before 
modern  times  —  rendering  our  knowledge  fruitful  in 
accumulation,  and  exquisite  in  accuracy,  has  acted  for 
good  or  evil,  according  to  the  temper  of  the  mind  which 
received  it ;  and  though  it  has  hardened  the  faithlessness 
of  the  dull  and  proud,  has  shown  new  grounds  for  rever- 
ence to  hearts  which  were  thoughtful  and  humble.  The 
neglect  of  the  art  of  war,  while  it  has  somewhat  weak- 
ened and  deformed  the  body,^  has  given  us  leisure  and 
opportunity  for  studies  to  which,  before,  time  and  space 
were  equally  wanting;  lives  which  once  were  early 
wasted  on  the  battle-field  are  now  passed  usefully  in  the 
study;  nations  which  exhausted  themselves  in  annual 
warfare  now  dispute  with  each  other  the  discovery  of 
new  planets;  and  the  serene  philosopher  dissects  the 
plants,  and  analyzes  the  dust,  of  lands  which  were  of 
old  only  traversed  by  the  knight  in  hasty  march,  or  by 
the  borderer  in  heedless  rapine. 

*  Of  course  this  is  meant  only  of  the  modern  citizen  or  country- 
gentleman,  as  compared  with  a  citizen  of  Sparta  or  old  Florence.  I 
leave  it  to  others  to  say  whether  the  "neglect  of  the  art  of  war"  may 
or  may  not,  in  a  yet  more  fatal  sense,  be  predicated  of  the  English 
nation.  War,  without  art,  we  seem,  with  God's  help,  able  still  to  wagf 
nobly.     [Ruskin.] 


OF  MODERN  LANDSCAPE  117 

The  elements  of  progress  and  decline  being  thus 
strangely  mingled  in  the  modern  mind,  we  might  before- 
hand anticipate  that  one  of  the  notable  characters  of 
our  art  would  be  its  inconsistency ;  that  efforts  w^ould  be 
made  in  every  direction,  and  arrested  by  every  conceiv- 
able cause  and  manner  of  failure ;  that  in  all  we  did,  it 
would  become  next  to  impossible  to  distinguish  accu- 
rately the  grounds  for  praise  or  for  regret ;  that  all  previ- 
ous canons  of  practice  and  methods  of  thought  would 
be  gradually  overthrown,  and  criticism  continually 
defied  by  successes  which  no  one  had  expected,  and 
sentiments  which  no  one  could  define. 

Accordingly,  while,  in  our  inquiries  into  Greek  and 
mediaeval  art,  I  was  able  to  describe,  in  general  terms, 
what  all  men  did  or  felt,  I  find  now  many  characters 
in  many  men ;  some,  it  seems  to  me,  founded  on  the 
inferior  and  evanescent  principles  of  modernism,  on 
its  recklessness,  impatience,  or  faithlessness;  others 
founded  on  its  science,  its  new  affection  for  nature,  its 
love  of  openness  and  liberty.  And  among  all  these  char- 
acters, good  or  evil,  I  see  that  some,  remaining  to  us 
from  old  or  transitional  periods,  do  not  properly  belong 
to  us,  and  will  soon  fade  away,  and  others,  though  not 
yet  distinctly  developed,  are  yet  properly  our  own,  and 
likely  to  grow  forward  into  greater  strength. 

For  instance :  our  reprobation  of  bright  colour  is,  I 
ihink,  for  the  most  part,  mere  affectation,  and  must 
soon  be  done  away  with.  Vulgarity,  dulness,  or  im- 
piety, will  indeed  always  express  themselves  through 
art  in  brown  and  grey,  as  in  Rembrandt,  Caravaggio, 
and  Salvator;  but  we  are  not  wholly  vulgar,  dull,  or 
impious;  nor,  as  moderns,  are  we  necessarily  obliged 
to  continue  so  in  any  wise.  Our  greatest  men,  whether 
sad  or  gay,  still  delight,  like  the  great  men  of  all  ages, 


118  MODERN   PAINTERS 

in  brilliant  hues.  The  colouring  of  Scott  and  Byron  is 
full  and  pure;  that  of  Keats  and  Tennyson  rich  even  to 
excess.  Our  practical  failures  in  colouring  are  merely 
the  necessary  consequences  of  our  prolonged  want  of 
practice  during  the  periods  of  Renaissance  affectation 
and  ignorance ;  and  the  only  durable  difference  between 
old  and  modern  colouring,  is  the  acceptance  of  certain 
hues,  by  the  modern,  which  please  him  by  expressing 
that  melancholy  peculiar  to  his  more  reflective  or  sen- 
timental character,  and  the  greater  variety  of  them 
necessary  to  express  his  greater  science. 

Again :  if  w^e  ever  become  wise  enough  to  dress  con- 
sistently and  gracefully,  to  make  health  a  principal 
object  in  education,  and  to  render  our  streets  beautiful 
with  art,  the  external  charm  of  past  history  will  in  great 
measure  disappear.  There  is  no  essential  reason,  be- 
cause we  live  after  the  fatal  seventeenth  century,  that 
we  should  never  again  be  able  to  confess  interest  in 
sculpture,  or  see  brightness  in  embroidery;  nor,  be- 
cause now  we  choose  to  make  the  night  deadly  with 
our  pleasures,  and  the  day  with  our  labours,  prolonging 
the  dance  till  dawn,  and  the  toil  to  twilight,  that  we 
should  never  again  learn  how  rightly  to  employ  the 
sacred  trusts  of  strength,  beauty,  and  time.  Whatever 
external  charm  attaches  itself  to  the  past,  would  then  be 
seen  in  proper  subordination  to  the  brightness  of  pre- 
sent life ;  and  the  elements  of  romance  would  exist,  in 
the  earlier  ages,  only  in  the  attraction  w^hich  must  gen- 
erally belong  to  whatever  is  unfamiliar;  in  the  rever- 
ence which  a  noble  nation  always  pays  to  its  ancestors ; 
and  in  the  enchanted  light  which  races,  like  individuals, 
must  perceive  in  looking  back  to  the  days  of  their  child- 
hood. 

Again  :  the  peculiar  levity  with  which  natural  scenery 


OF  MODERN  LANDSCAPE  119 

is  regarded  by  a  large  number  of  modern  minds  cannot 
be  considered  as  entirely  characteristic  of  the  age,  inas- 
much as  it  never  can  belong  to  its  greatest  intellects. 
Men  of  any  high  mental  power  must  be  serious, 
whether  in  ancient  or  modern  days :  a  certain  degree  of 
reverence  for  fair  scenery  is  found  in  all  our  great 
writers  without  exception,  —  even  the  one  who  has 
made  us  laugh  oftenest,  taking  us  to  the  valley  of 
Chamouni,  and  to  the  sea  beach,  there  to  give  peace 
after  suffering,  and  change  revenge  into  pity.^  It  is  only 
the  dull,  the  uneducated,  or  the  worldly,  whom  it  is 
painful  to  meet  on  the  hillsides ;  and  levity,  as  a  ruling 
character,  cannot  be  ascribed  to  the  whole  nation,  but 
only  to  its  holiday-making  apprentices,  and  its  House 
of  Commons. 

We  need  not,  therefore,  expect  to  find  any  single  poet 
or  painter  representing  the  entire  group  of  powers, 
weaknesses,  and  inconsistent  instincts  which  govern  or 
confuse  our  modern  life.  But  we  may  expect  that  in 
the  man  who  seems  to  be  given  by  Providence  as  the 
type  of  the  age  (as  Homer  and  Dante  were  given,  as 
the  types  of  classical  and  mediaeval  mind),  we  shall  find 
whatever  is  fruitful  and  substantial  to  be  completely 
present,  together  with  those  of  our  weaknesses,  which 
are  indeed  nationally  characteristic,  and  compatible 
with  general  greatness  of  mind,  just  as  the  weak  love 
of  fences,  and  dislike  of  mountains,  were  found  com- 
patible with  Dante's  greatness  in  other  respects. 

Farther:  as  the  admiration  of  mankind  is  found,  in 
our  times,  to  have  in  great  part  passed  from  men  to 
mountains,  and  from  human  emotion  to  natural  phe- 
nomena, we  may  anticipate  that  the  great  strength 
of  art  will  also  be  warped  in  this  direction ;  with  this 

'  See  David  Copperfidd,  chap.  55  and  58,    [Ruskin.] 


120  MODERN  PAINTERS 

notable  result  for  us,  that  whereas  the  greatest  paint- 
ers or  painter  of  classical  and  mediseval  periods,  being 
wholly  devoted  to  the  representation  of  humanity,  fur- 
nished us  with  but  little  to  examine  in  landscape,  the 
greatest  painters  or  painter  of  modern  times  will  in 
all  probability  be  devoted  to  landscape  principally; 
and  farther,  because  in  representing  human  emotion 
words  surpass  painting,  but  in  representing  natural 
scenery  painting  surpasses  words,  we  may  anticipate 
also  that  the  painter  and  poet  (for  convenience'  sake 
I  here  use  the  words  in  opposition)  will  somewhat 
change  their  relations  of  rank  in  illustrating  the  mind 
of  the  age ;  that  the  painter  will  become  of  more  impor- 
tance, the  poet  of  less ;  and  that  the  relations  between  the 
men  who  are  the  types  and  firstfruits  of  the  age  in 
word  and  work,  —  namely,  Scott  and  Turner,  —  will 
be,  in  many  curious  respects,  different  from  those  be- 
tween Homer  and  Phidias,  or  Dante  and  Giotto.* 


THE  TWO  BOYHOODS 
Volume  V,  Part  9,  Chapter  9 

Born  half-way  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea 
■ —  that  young  George  of  Castelfranco  —  of  the  Brave 
Castle :  —  Stout  George  they  called  him,  George  of 
Georges,  so  goodly  a  boy  he  was  —  Giorgione.^ 

Have  you  ever  thought  what  a  w^orld  his  eyes  opened 
on  —  fair,  searching  eyes  of  youth  ?  What  a  world 
of  mighty  life,  from  those  mountain  roots  to  the  shore ; 

^  Ruskin  proceeds  to  discuss  Scott  as  he  has  discussed  Homer. 
The  chapter  on  Turner  that  follows  here  is  an  aknost  equally  good 
illustration  of  Ruskin's  ideas. 

2  c.  1478-1511. 


THE   TWO   BOYHOODS  121 

—  of  loveliest  life,  when  he  went  down,  yet  so  young, 
to  the  marble  city  —  and  became  himself  as  a  fiery 
heart  to  it  ? 

A  city  of  marble,  did  I  say  ?  nay,  rather  a  golden 
city,  paved  with  emerald.  For  truly,  every  pinnacle 
and  turret  glanced  or  glowed,  overlaid  with  gold,  or 
bossed  with  jasper.  Beneath,  the  unsullied  sea  drew 
in  deep  breathing,  to  and  fro,  its  eddies  of  green  wave. 
Deep-hearted,  majestic,  terrible  as  the  sea,  —  the  men 
of  Venice  moved  in  sway  of  power  and  war;  pure  as 
her  pillars  of  alabaster,  stood  her  mothers  and  maid- 
ens ;  from  foot  to  brow,  all  noble,  walked  her  knights ; 
the  low  bronzed  gleaming  of  sea-rusted  armour  shot 
angrily  under  their  blood-red  mantle-folds.  Fearless, 
faithful,  patient,  impenetrable,  implacable,  —  every 
word  a  fate  —  sate  her  senate.  In  hope  and  honour, 
lulled  by  flowing  of  wave  around  their  isles  of  sacred 
sand,  each  with  his  name  written  and  the  cross  graved 
at  his  side,  lay  her  dead.  A  wonderful  piece  of  world. 
Rather,  itself  a  world.  It  lay  along  the  face  of  the 
waters,  no  larger,  as  its  captains  saw  it  from  their 
masts  at  evening,  than  a  bar  of  sunset  that  could  not 
pass  away;  but  for  its  power,  it  must  have  seemed  to 
them  as  if  they  were  sailing  in  the  expanse  of  heaven, 
and  this  a  great  planet,  whose  orient  edge  widened 
through  ether.  A  world  from  which  all  ignoble  care 
and  petty  thoughts  were  banished,  with  all  the  com- 
mon and  poor  elements  of  life.  No  foulness,  nor  tu- 
mult, in  those  tremulous  streets,  that  filled,  or  fell,  be- 
neath the  moon ;  but  rippled  music  of  majestic  change, 
or  thrilling  silence.  No  weak  walls  could  rise  above 
them;  no  low-roofed  cottage,  nor  straw-built  shed. 
Only  the  strength  as  of  rock,  and  the  finished  setting 
of  stones  most  precious.   And  around  them,  far  as  the 


122  MODERN   PAINTERS 

eye  could  reach,  still  the  soft  moving  of  stainless  waters, 
proudly  pure;  as  not  the  flower,  so  neither  the  thorn 
nor  the  thistle,  could  grow  in  the  glancing  fields.  Ethe- 
real strength  of  Alps,  dreamlike,  vanishing  in  high 
procession  beyond  the  Torcellan  shore;  blue  islands 
of  Paduan  hills,  poised  in  the  golden  west.  Above, 
free  winds  and  fiery  clouds  ranging  at  their  will ;  — 
brightness  out  of  the  north,  and  balm  from  the  south, 
and  the  stars  of  the  evening  and  morning  clear  in  the 
limitless  light  of  arched  heaven  and  circling  sea. 

Such  was  Giorgione's  school  —  such  Titian's  home. 

Near  the  south-west  corner  of  Co  vent  Garden,  a 
square  brick  pit  or  well  is  formed  by  a  close-set  block 
of  houses,  to  the  back  windows  of  which  it  admits  a 
few  rays  of  light.  Access  to  the  bottom  of  it  is  obtained 
out  of  Maiden  Lane,  through  a  low  archway  and  an 
iron  gate ;  and  if  you  stand  long  enough  under  the  arch- 
way to  accustom  your  eyes  to  the  darkness  you  may 
see  on  the  left  hand  a  narrow  door,  which  formerly 
gave  quiet  access  to  a  respectable  barber's  shop,  of 
which  the  front  window,  looking  into  Maiden  Lane, 
is  still  extant,  filled,  in  this  year  (1860),  with  a  row 
of  bottles,  connected,  in  some  defunct  manner,  with  a 
brewer's  business.  A  more  fashionable  neighbourhood, 
it  is  said,  eighty  years  ago  than  now  —  never  certainly 
a  cheerful  one  —  wherein  a  boy  being  born  on  St. 
George's  day,  1775,  began  soon  after  to  take  interest 
in  the  world  of  Co  vent  Garden,  and  put  to  service  such 
spectacles  of  life  as  it  afforded. 

No  knights  to  be  seen  there,  nor,  I  imagine,  many 
beautiful  ladies ;  their  costume  at  least  disadvantageous, 
depending  much  on  incumbency  of  hat  and  feather, 
and  short  waists ;  the  majesty  of  men  founded  similarly 
on  shoebuckles  and  wigs ;  —  impressive  enough  when 


THE  TWO   BOYHOODS  123 

Reynolds  will  do  his  best  for  it ;  but  not  suggestive  of 
much  ideal  delight  to  a  boy. 

"  Bello  ovile  dov'  io  dormii  agnello " ;  ^  of  things 
beautiful,  besides  men  and  women,  dusty  sunbeams 
up  or  down  the  street  on  summer  mornings ;  deep  fur- 
rowed cabbage-leaves  at  the  greengrocer's;  magnifi- 
cence of  oranges  in  wheelbarrows  round  the  corner; 
and  Thames'  shore  within  three  minutes'  race. 

None  of  these  things  very  glorious;  the  best,  how- 
ever, that  England,  it  seems,  was  then  able  to  provide 
for  a  boy  of  gift :  who,  such  as  they  are,  loves  them  — 
never,  indeed,  forgets  them.  The  short  waists  modify 
to  the  last  his  visions  of  Greek  ideal.  His  foregrounds 
had  always  a  succulent  cluster  or  two  of  greengrocery 
at  the  corners.  Enchanted  oranges  gleam  in  Covent 
.  Gardens  of  the  Hesperides ;  and  great  ships  go  to  pieces 
in  order  to  scatter  chests  of  them  on  the  waves. ^  That 
mist  of  early  sunbeams  in  the  London  dawn  crosses, 
many  and  many  a  time,  the  clearness  of  Italian  air; 
and  by  Thames'  shore,  with  its  stranded  barges  and 
glidings  of  red  sail,  dearer  to  us  than  Lucerne  lake  or 
Venetian  lagoon,  —  by  Thames'  shore  we  will  die. 

With  such  circumstance  round  him  in  youth,  let 
us  note  what  necessary  effects  followed  upon  the  boy. 
I  assume  him  to  have  had  Giorgione's  sensibility  (and 
more  than  Giorgione's,  if  that  be  possible)  to  colour  and 
form.  I  tell  you  farther,  and  this  fact  you  may  receive 
trustfully,  that  his  sensibility  to  human  affection  and 
distress  was  no  less  keen  than  even  his  sense  for  natU' 
ral  beauty  —  heart-sight  deep  as  eyesight. 

Consequently,  he  attaches   himself  with  the  faith- 

^  Dante,  alluding;  to  Florence,  Paradiso.  25.  5.  "From  the  fair 
sheepfold,  where  a  lamb  I  slumbered."     Longfellow's  tr. 

^  Allusions  to  pictures  by  Turner,  The  Garden  of  the  Hesperides, 
and  The  Meuse :  Orange-Merchantman  going  to  pieces  on  the  Bar. 


124  MODERN  PAINTERS 

fullest  child-love  to  everything  that  bears  an  image  of 
the  place  he  was  born  in.  No  matter  how  ugly  it  is, 
—  has  it  anything  about  it  like  Maiden  Lane,  or  like 
Thames'  shore  ?  If  so,  it  shall  be  painted  for  their  sake. 
Hence,  to  the  very  close  of  life,  Turner  could  endure 
ugliness  which  no  one  else,  of  the  same  sensibility, 
would  have  borne  with  for  an  instant.  Dead  brick  walls, 
blank  square  windows,  old  clothes,  market-womanly 
types  of  humanity  —  anything  fishy  and  muddy,  like 
Billingsgate  or  Hungerford  Market,  had  great  attrac- 
tion for  him;  black  barges,  patched  sails,  and  every 
possible  condition  of  fog. 

You  will  find  these  tolerations  and  affections  guid- 
ing or  sustaining  him  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life;  the 
notablest  of  all  such  endurances  being  that  of  dirt.  No 
Venetian  ever  draws  anything  foul;  but  Turner  de- 
voted picture  after  picture  to  the  illustration  of  effects 
of  dinginess,  smoke,  soot,  dust,  and  dusty  texture; 
old  sides  of  boats,  weedy  roadside  vegetation,  dung- 
hills, straw-yards,  and  all  the  soilings  and  stains  of 
every  common  labour. 

And  more  than  this,  he  not  only  could  endure,  but 
enjoyed  and  looked  for  litter,  like  Covent  Garden 
wreck  after  the  market.  His  pictures  are  often  full  of 
it,  from  side  to  side;  their  foregrounds  differ  from  all 
others  in  the  natural  way  that  things  have  of  lying 
about  in  them.  Even  his  richest  vegetation,  in  ideal 
work,  is  confused ;  and  he  delights  in  shingle,  debris, 
and  heaps  of  fallen  stones.  The  last  words  he  ever 
spoke  to  me  about  a  picture  were  in  gentle  exultation 
about  his  St.  Gothard :  "that  litter  of  stones  which  I 
endeavoured  to  represent." 

The  second  great  result  of  this  Covent  Garden  train- 
ing was,  understanding  of  and  regard  for  the  poor, 


THE  TWO  BOYHOODS  125 

whom  the  Venetians,  we  saw,  despised ;  whom,  contra- 
rily,  Turner  loved,  and  more  than  loved  —  understood. 
He  got  no  romantic  sight  of  them,  but  an  infallible 
one,  as  he  prowled  about  the  end  of  his  lane,  watching 
night  effects  in  the  wintry  streets ;  nor  sight  of  the  poor 
alone,  but  of  the  poor  in  direct  relations  with  the  rich. 
He  knew,  in  good  and  evil,  what  both  classes  thought 
of,  and  how  they  dwelt  with,  each  other. 

Reynolds  and  Gainsborough,  bred  in  country  vil- 
lages, learned  there  the  country  boy's  reverential  theory 
of  "  the  squire,"  and  kept  it.  They  painted  the  squire 
and  the  squire's  lady  as  centres  of  the  movements  of 
the  universe,  to  the  end  of  their  lives.  But  Turner  per- 
ceived the  younger  squire  in  other  aspects  about  his 
lane,  occurring  prominently  in  its  night  scenery,  as  a 
dark  figure,  or  one  of  two,  against  the  moonlight.  He 
saw  also  the  working  of  city  commerce,  from  endless 
warehouse,  towering  over  Thames,  to  the  back  shop 
in  the  lane,  with  its  stale  herrings  —  highly  interesting 
these  last;  one  of  his  father's  best  friends,  whom  he 
often  afterwards  visited  affectionately  at  Bristol,  being 
a  fishmonger  and  glue-boiler ;  which  gives  us  a  friendly 
turn  of  mind  towards  herring-fishing,  whaling,  Calais 
poissardes,  and  many  other  of  our  choicest  subjects 
in  after  life ;  all  this  being  connected  with  that  mysteri- 
ous forest  below  London  Bridge  on  one  side ; —  and,  on 
the  other,  with  these  masses  of  human  power  and  na- 
tional wealth  which  weigh  upon  us,  at  Covent  Garden 
here,  with  strange  compression,  and  crush  us  into 
narrow  Hand  Court. 

"  That  mysterious  forest  below  London  Bridge  "  — - 
better  for  the  boy  than  wood  of  pine,  or  grove  of 
myrtle.  How  he  must  have  tormented  the  watermen, 
beseeching  them  to  let  him  crouch  anywhere  in  the 


126  MODERN   PAINTERS 

bows,  quiet  as  a  log,  so  only  that  he  might  get  floated 
down  tliere  among  the  ships,  and  round  and  round  the 
ships,  and  with  the  ships,  and  by  the  ships,  and  under 
the  ships,  staring,  and  clambering ;  —  these  the  only 
quite  beautiful  things  he  can  see  in  all  the  world,  ex- 
cept the  sky;  but  these,  when  the  sun  is  on  their  sails, 
filling  or  falling,  endlessly  disordered  by  sway  of  tide 
and  stress  of  anchorage,  beautiful  unspeakably;  which 
ships  also  are  inhabited  by  glorious  creatures  —  red- 
faced  sailors,  with  pipes,  appearing  over  the  gunwales, 
true  knights,  over  their  castle  parapets  —  the  most 
angelic  beings  in  the  whole  compass  of  London  world. 
And  Trafalgar  happening  long  before  we  can  draw 
ships,  we,  nevertheless,  coax  all  current  stories  out  of 
the  wounded  sailors,  do  our  best  at  present  to  show 
Nelson's  funeral  streaming  up  the  Thames;  and  vow 
that  Trafalgar  shall  have  its  tribute  of  memory  some 
day.  Which,  accordingly,  is  accomplished  —  once, 
w^ith  all  our  might,  for  its  death;  twice,  with  all  our 
might,  for  its  victory;  thrice,  in  pensive  farewell  to  the 
old  Temeraire,  and,  with  it,  to  that  order  of  things.^ 

Now  this  fond  companying  with  sailors  must  have 
divided  his  time,  it  appears  to  me,  pretty  equally  be- 
tween Covent  Garden  and  Wapping  (allowing  for 
incidental  excursions  to  Chelsea  on  one  side,  and 
Greenwich  on  the  other),  which  time  he  would  spend 
pleasantly,  but  not  magnificently,  being  limited  in 
pocket-money,  and  leading  a  kind  of  "Poor- Jack" 
life  on  the  river. 

In  some  respects,  no  life  could  be  better  for  a  lad. 
But  it  was  not  calculated  to  make  his  ear  fine  to  the 

^  The  pictures  referred  to  are:  The  Death  of  Nelson,  The  Battle 
of  Trafalujar,  and  The  Fighting  Temeraire  being  towed  to  its  Last 
Berth  (see  cut).  The  first  and  third  are  in  the  National  Gallery, 
London. 


S5 


THE  TWO  BOYHOODS  127 

niceties  of  language,  nor  form  his  moralities  on  an  en- 
tirely regular  standard.  Picking  up  his  first  scraps  of 
vigorous  English  chiefly  at  Deptford  and  in  the  mar- 
kets, and  his  first  ideas  of  female  tenderness  and  beauty 
among  nymphs  of  the  barge  and  the  barrow,  —  another 
boy  might,  perhaps,  have  become  what  people  usually 
term  "vulgar."  But  the  original  make  and  frame  of 
Turner's  mind  being  not  vulgar,  but  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible a  combination  of  the  minds  of  Keats  and  Dante^ 
joining  capricious  waywardness,  and  intense  openness 
to  every  fine  pleasure  of  sense,  and  hot  defiance  of 
formal  precedent,  with  a  quite  infinite  tenderness, 
generosity,  and  desire  of  justice  and  truth  —  this  kind 
of  mind  did  not  become  vulgar,  but  very  tolerant  of 
vulgarity,  even  fond  of  it  in  some  forms;  and  on  the 
outside,  visibly  infected  by  it,  deeply  enough;  the  cu- 
rious result,  in  its  combination  of  elements,  being  to 
most  people  wholly  incomprehensible.  It  was  as  if  a 
cable  had  been  woven  of  blood-crimson  silk,  and  then 
tarred  on  the  outside.  People  handled  it,  and  the  tar 
came  off  on  their  hands ;  red  gleams  were  seen  through 
the  black,  underneath,  at  the  places  where  it  had  been 
strained.  Was  it  ochre  '^  —  said  the  world  —  or  red 
lead  ? 

Schooled  thus  in  manners,  literature,  and  general 
moral  principles  at  Chelsea  and  Wapping,  we  have 
finally  to  inquire  concerning  the  most  important  point 
of  all.  We  have  seen  the  principal  differences  between 
this  boy  and  Giorgione,  as  respects  sight  of  the  beauti- 
ful, understanding  of  poverty,  of  commerce,  and  of 
order  of  battle ;  then  follows  another  cause  of  difference 
in  our  training  —  not  slight,  —  the  aspect  of  religion, 
namely,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Co  vent  Garden.  I 
say  the  aspect ;  for  that  was  all  the  lad  could  judge  by. 


128  MODERN  PAINTERS 

Disposed,  for  the  most  part,  to  learn  chiefly  by  his 
eyes,  in  this  special  matter  he  finds  there  is  really  no 
other  way  of  learning.  His  father  had  taught  him  "  to 
lay  one  penny  upon  another."  Of  mother's  teaching, 
we  hear  of  none;  of  parish  pastoral  teaching,  the 
reader  may  guess  how  much. 

I  chose  Giorgione  rather  than  Veronese  to  help  me  in 
carrying  out  this  parallel;  because  I  do  not  find  in 
Giorgione's  work  any  of  the  early  Venetian  monarchist 
element.  He  seems  to  me  to  have  belonged  more  to 
an  abstract  contemplative  school.  I  may  be  wTong  in 
this ;  it  is  no  matter; — suppose  it  were  so,  and  that  he 
came  down  to  Venice  somewhat  recusant,  or  insen- 
tient, concerning  the  usual  priestly  doctrines  of  his 
day,  —  how  would  the  Venetian  religion,  from  an  outer 
intellectual  standing-point,  have  looked  to  him  ? 

He  would  have  seen  it  to  be  a  religion  indisputably 
powerful  in  human  affairs;  often  very  harmfully  so; 
sometimes  devouring  widows'  houses,^  and  consuming 
the  strongest  and  fairest  from  among  the  young ;  freez- 
ing into  merciless  bigotry  the  policy  of  the  old  :  also,  on 
the  other  hand,  animating  national  courage,  and  raising 
souls,  otherwise  sordid,  into  heroism :  on  the  whole, 
always  a  real  and  great  power ;  served  with  daily  sacri- 
fice of  gold,  time,  and  thought ;  putting  forth  its  claims, 
if  hypocritically,  at  least  in  bold  hypocrisy,  not  waiving 
any  atom  of  them  in  doubt  or  fear;  and,  assuredly,  in 
large  measure,  sincere,  believing  in  itself,  and  believed : 
a  goodly  system,  moreover,  in  aspect;  gorgeous,  har- 
monious, mysterious ;  —  a  thing  which  had  either  to  be 
obeyed  or  combated,  but  could  not  be  scorned.  A  reli- 
gion towering  over  all  the  city  —  many-buttressed  — ■ 
luminous  in  marble  stateliness,  as  the  dome  of  our  Lady 
*  Matthew  xxiii,  14. 


THE  TWO   BOYHOODS  129 

of  Safety  *  shines  over  the  sea ;  many-voiced  also,  giv- 
ing, over  all  the  eastern  seas,  to  the  sentinel  his  watch- 
word, to  the  soldier  his  war-cry;  and,  on  the  lips  of  all 
who  died  for  Venice,  shaping  the  whisper  of  death. 

I  suppose  the  boy  Turner  to  have  regarded  the  reli- 
gion of  his  city  also  from  an  external  intellectual  stand- 
ing-point. 

What  did  he  see  in  Maiden  Lane  ? 

Let  not  the  reader  be  offended  with  me  ;  I  am  willing 
to  let  him  describe,  at  his  own  pleasure,  what  Turner 
saw  there;  but  to  me,  it  seems  to  have  been  this.  A 
religion  maintained  occasionally,  even  the  whole  length 
of  the  lane,  at  point  of  constable's  staff ;  but,  at  other 
times,  placed  under  the  custody  of  the  beadle,  within 
certain  black  and  unstately  iron  railings  of  St.  Paul's, 
Covent  Garden.  Among  the  wheelbarrows  and  over 
the  vegetables,  no  perceptible  dominance  of  religion; 
in  the  narrow,  disquieted  streets,  none ;  in  the  tongues, 
deeds,  daily  ways  of  Maiden  Lane,  little.  Some  hon- 
esty, indeed,  and  English  industry,  and  kindness  of 
heart,  and  general  idea  of  justice ;  but  faith,  of  any  na- 
tional kind,  shut  up  from  one  Sunday  to  the  next,  not 
artistically  beautiful  even  in  those  Sabbatical  exhibi- 
tions; its  paraphernalia  being  chiefly  of  high  pews, 
heavy  elocution,  and  cold  grimness  of  behaviour. 

What  chiaroscuro  belongs  to  it  —  (dependent  mostly 
on  candlelight),  — we  will,  however,  draw  considerately ; 
no  goodliness  of  escutcheon,  nor  other  respectability 
being  omitted,  and  the  best  of  their  results  confessed, 
a  meek  old  woman  and  a  child  being  let  into  a  pew,  for 
whom  the  reading  by  candlelight  will  be  beneficial.^ 

^  Santa  Maria  della  Salute,  a  church  conspicuously  situated  at  the 
junction  of  the  Grand  Canal  and  the  Giudecca. 

^  Liber  Studiorum.  "Interior  of  a  church."  It  is  worthy  of 
remark  that  Giorgione  and  Titian  are  always  delighted  to  have 


130  MODERN  PAINTERS 

For  the  rest,  this  rchgion  seems  to  him  discreditable 
—  discredited  —  not  beheving  in  itself  ;  putting  forth 
its  authority  in  a  cowardly  way,  watching  how  far  it 
might  be  tolerated,  continually  shrinking,  disclaiming, 
fencing,  finessing;  divided  against  itself,  not  by  stormy 
rents,  but  by  thin  fissures,  and  splittings  of  plaster 
from  the  walls.  Not  to  be  either  obeyed,  or  combated, 
by  an  ignorant,  yet  clear-sighted  youth ;  only  to  be 
scorned.  And  scorned  not  one  whit  the  less,  though 
also  the  dome  dedicated  to  it  looms  high  over  distant 
winding  of  the  Thames;  as  St.  Mark's  campanile 
rose,  for  goodly  landmark,  over  mirage  of  lagoon.  For 
St.  Mark  ruled  over  life;  the  Saint  of  London  over 
death;  St.  Mark  over  St.  Mark's  Place,  but  St.  Paul 
over  St.  Paul's  Churchyard. 

Under  these  influences  pass  away  the  first  reflective 
hours  of  life,  with  such  conclusion  as  they  can  reach. 
In  consequence  of  a  fit  of  illness,  he  was  taken  —  I  can- 
not ascertain  in  what  year  ^  —  to  live  with  an  aunt,  at 
Brentford ;  and  here,  I  believe,  received  some  school- 
ing, which  he  seems  to  have  snatched  vigorously ;  get- 
ting knowledge,  at  least  by  translation,  of  the  more 
picturesque  classical  authors,  which  he  turned  pre- 
sently to  use,  as  we  shall  see.  Hence  also,  walks  about 
Putney  and  Twickenham  in  the  summer  time  ac- 
quainted him  with  the  look  of  English  meadow-ground 
in  its  restricted  states  of  paddock  and  park;  and  with 
some  round-headed  appearances  of  trees,  and  stately 
entrances  to  houses  of  mark :  the  avenue  at  Bushy,  and 
the  iron  gates  and  carved  pillars  of  Hampton,^  impress- 

an  opportunity  of  drawincr  priests.  The  English  Church  may, 
perhaps,  accept  it  as  matter  of  conjjratulation  that  this  is  the  only 
instance  in  which  Turner  drew  a  clergyman.   [Ruskin.] 

1  1785. 

2  Wolsey's  famous  palace,  twelve  miles  from  London. 


THE  TWO   BOYHOODS  131 

ing  him  apparently  with  great  awe  and  admiration ;  so 
that  in  after  Hfe  his  Httle  country  house  is,  —  of  all 
places  in  the  world,  —  at  Twickenham  !  Of  swans  and 
reedy  shores  he  now  learns  the  soft  motion  and  the 
green  mystery,  in  a  way  not  to  be  forgotten. 

And  at  last  fortune  wills  that  the  lad's  true  life  shall 
begin;  and  one  summer's  evening,  after  various  won- 
derful stage-coach  experiences  on  the  north  road,  which 
gave  him  a  love  of  stage-coaches  ever  after,  he  finds 
himself  sitting  alone  among  the  Yorkshire  hills. ^  For 
the  first  time,  the  silence  of  Nature  round  him,  her  free- 
dom sealed  to  him,  her  glory  opened  to  him.  Peace  at 
last ;  no  roll  of  cart-wheel,  nor  mutter  of  sullen  voices  in 
the  back  shop ;  but  curlew-cry  in  space  of  heaven,  and 
welling  of  bell-toned  streamlet  by  its  shadowy  rock. 
Freedom  at  last.  Dead-wall,  dark  railing,  fenced  field, 
gated  garden,  all  passed  away  like  the  dream  of  a 
prisoner;  and  behold,  far  as  foot  or  eye  can  race  or 
range,  the  moor,  and  cloud.  Loveliness  at  last.  It  is 
here,  then,  among  these  deserted  vales!  Not  among 
men.  Those  pale,  poverty-struck,  or  cruel  faces;  — 
that  multitudinous,  marred  humanity  —  are  not  the 
only  things  that  God  has  made.  Here  is  something 
He  has  made  which  no  one  has  marred.  Pride  of  purple 
rocks,  and  river  pools  of  blue,  and  tender  wilderness 
of  glittering  trees,  and  misty  lights  of  evening  on  im- 
measurable hills. 

Beauty,  and  freedom,  and  peace;  and  yet  another 

teacher,  graver  than  these.    Sound  preaching  at  last 

here,  in  Kirkstall  crypt,  concerning  fate  and  life.  Here, 

where  the  dark  pool  reflects  the  chancel  pillars,  and  the 

^  I  do  not  mean  that  this  is  his  first  acquaintance  wnth  the  coun- 
try, but  the  first  impressive  and  touching  one,  after  his  mind  was 
formed.  The  earhest  sketches  I  found  in  the  National  Collection 
are  at  Clifton  and  Bristol;  the  next,  at  Oxford.   [Ruskin.] 


132  MODERN   PAINTERS 

cattle  lie  in  unhindered  rest,  the  soft  sunshine  on  their 
dappled  bodies,  instead  of  priests'  vestments;  their 
white  furry  hair  ruffled  a  little,  fitfully,  by  the  evening 
wind  deep-scented  from  the  meadow  thyme. 

Consider  deeply  the  import  to  him  of  this,  his  first 
sight  of  ruin,  and  compare  it  with  the  effect  of  the 
architecture  that  was  around  Giorgione.  There  were 
indeed  aged  buildings,  at  Venice,  in  his  time,  but  none 
in  decay.  All  ruin  was  removed,  and  its  place  filled  as 
quickly  as  in  our  London ;  but  filled  always  by  architec- 
ture loftier  and  more  wonderful  than  that  whose  place 
it  took,  the  boy  himself  happy  to  work  upon  the  walls  of 
it ;  so  that  the  idea  of  the  passing  away  of  the  strength  of 
men  and  beauty  of  their  works  never  could  occur  to  him 
sternly.  Brighter  and  brighter  the  cities  of  Italy  had 
been  rising  and  broadening  on  hill  and  plain,  for  three 
hundred  years.  He  saw  only  strength  and  immortality, 
could  not  but  paint  both ;  conceived  the  form  of  man  as 
deathless,  calm  with  power,  and  fiery  with  life. 

Turner  saw  the  exact  reverse  of  this.  In  the  pre- 
sent work  of  men,  meanness,  aimlessness,  unsight- 
liness:  thin -walled,  lath -divided,  narrow  -  garreted 
houses  of  clay;  booths  of  a  darksome  Vanity  Fair, 
busily  base. 

But  on  Whitby  Hill,  and  by  Bolton  Brook,^  remained 
traces  of  other  handiwork.  Men  who  could  build  had 
been  there ;  and  who  also  had  wrought,  not  merely  for 
their  own  days.  But  to  what  punpose  ?  Strong  faith, 
and  steady  hands,  and  patient  souls  —  can  this,  then, 
be  all  you  have  left !  this  the  sum  of  your  doing  on  the 
earth !  —  a  nest  whence  the  night-owl  may  whimper  to 
the  brook,  and  a  ribbed  skeleton  of  consumed  arches, 

*  The  reference  is  to  the  two  famous  ruined  abbeys  of  Yorkshire 
—  Whitby  and  Bolton. 


THE  TWO   BOYHOODS  133 

looming  above  the  bleak  banks  of  mist,  from  its  cliff  to 
the  sea? 

As  the  strength  of  men  to  Giorgione,  to  Turner  their 
weakness  and  vileness,  were  alone  visible.  They  them- 
selves, unworthy  or  ephemeral ;  their  work,  despicable, 
or  decayed.  In  the  Venetian's  eyes,  all  beauty  depended 
on  man's  presence  and  pride ;  in  Turner's,  on  the  soli- 
tude he  had  left,  and  the  humiliation  he  had  suffered. 

And  thus  the  fate  and  issue  of  all  his  work  were  de- 
termined at  once.  He  must  be  a  painter  of  the  strength 
of  nature,  there  was  no  beauty  elsewhere  than  in  that ; 
he  must  paint  also  the  labour  and  sorrow  and  passing 
away  of  men :  this  was  the  great  human  truth  visible  to 
him. 

Their  labour,  their  sorrow,  and  their  death.  Mark 
the  three.  Labour;  by  sea  and  land,  in  field  and  city, 
at  forge  and  furnace,  helm  and  plough.  No  pastoral 
indolence  nor  classic  pride  shall  stand  between  him  and 
the  troubling  of  the  world ;  still  less  between  him  and 
the  toil  of  his  country,  —  blind,  tormented,  unwearied, 
marvellous  England. 

Also  their  Sorrow;  Ruin  of  all  their  glorious  work, 
passing  away  of  their  thoughts  and  their  honour,  mirage 
of  pleasure,  Fallacy  of  Hope  ;  gathering  of  weed  on 
temple  step ;  gaining  of  wave  on  deserted  strand ;  weep- 
ing of  the  mother  for  the  children,  desolate  by  her 
breathless  first-born  in  the  streets  of  the  city,^  desolate 
by  her  last  sons  slain,  among  the  beasts  of  the  field. ^ 

And  their  Death.  That  old  Greek  question  again; 
—  yet  unanswered.  The  unconquerable  spectre  still 
flitting  among  the  forest  trees  at  twilight ;  rising  ribbed 
out  of  the  sea-sand ;  —  white,  a  strange  Aphrodite,  — 

1  The  Tenth  Plaj^ue  of  Ecrypt.    [Ruskin.] 

2  Rizpah,  the  Daughter  of  Aiah.    [Ruskin.] 


134  MODERN  PAINTERS 

out  of  the  sea-foam ;  stretching  its  grey,  cloven  wings 
among  the  clouds ;  turning  the  light  of  their  sunsets 
into  blood.  This  has  to.be  looked  upon,  and  in  a  more 
terrible  shape  than  ever  Salvator  or  Diirer  saw  it.^  The 
wreck  of  one  guilty  country  does  not  infer  the  ruin  of 
all  countries,  and  need  not  cause  general  terror  respect- 
ing the  laws  of  the  universe.  Neither  did  the  orderly 
and  narrow  succession  of  domestic  joy  and  sorrow  in  a 
small  German  community  bring  the  question  in  its 
breadth,  or  in  any  unresolvable  shape,  before  the  mind 
of  Diirer.  But  the  English  death  —  the  European  death 
of  the  nineteenth  century  —  was  of  another  range  and 
power;  more  terrible  a  thousandfold  in  its  merely  phy- 
sical grasp  and  grief ;  more  terrible,  incalculably,  in  its 
•mystery  and  shame.  What  were  the  robber's  casual 
pang,  or  the  range  of  the  flying  skirmish,  compared  to 
the  work  of  the  axe,  and  the  sword,  and  the  famine, 
which  was  done  during  this  man's  youth  on  all  the  hills 
and  plains  of  the  Christian  earth,  from  Moscow  to 
Gibraltar  ?  He  was  eighteen  years  old  when  Napoleon 
came  down  on  Areola.  Look  on  the  map  of  Europe  and 
count  the  blood-stains  on  it,  between  Areola  and 
Waterloo.^ 

Not  alone  those  blood-stains  on  the  Alpine  snow,  and 
the  blue  of  the  Lombard  plain.  The  English  death  was 
before  his  eyes  also.  No  decent,  calculable,  consoled 
dying ;  no  passing  to  rest  like  that  of  the  aged  burghers 
of  Nuremberg  town.  No  gentle  processions  to  church- 
yards among  the  fields,  the  bronze  crests  bossed  deep 
on  the  memorial  tablets,  and  the  skylark  singing  above 
them  from  among  the  corn.   But  the  life  trampled  out 

^  Diirer  [1471-1528],  German  painter,  enj^raver,  and  designer. 
Salvator  [1615-73],  Italian  painter,  etcher,  satirical  poet,  and  musical 
composer. 

2  /.  e.,  between  November  17,  1796,  and  June  18,  1815. 


THE  TWO  BOYHOODS  135 

in  the  slime  of  the  street,  crushed  to  dust  amidst  the 
Toaring  of  the  wheel,  tossed  countlessly  away  into  howl- 
ing winter  wind  along  five  hundred  leagues  of  rock- 
fanged  shore.  Or,  worst  of  all,  rotted  down  to  forgotten 
graves  through  years  of  ignorant  patience,  and  vain 
seeking  for  help  from  man,  for  hope  in  God  —  infirm, 
imperfect  yearning,  as  of  motherless  infants  starving  at 
the  dawn  ;  oppressed  royalties  of  captive  thought,  vague 
ague-fits  of  bleak,  amazed  despair. 

A  goodly  landscape  this,  for  the  lad  to  paint,  and 
under  a  goodly  light.  Wide  enough  the  light  was,  and 
clear;  no  more  Salvator's  lurid  chasm  on  jagged  hori- 
zon, nor  Durer's  spotted  rest  of  sunny  gleam  on  hedge- 
row and  field ;  but  light  over  all  the  world.  Full  shone 
now  its  awful  globe,  one  pallid  charnel-house,  —  a  ball 
strewn  bright  with  human  ashes,  glaring  in  poised  sway 
beneath  the  sun,  all  blinding-white  with  death  from 
pole  to  pole,  —  death,  not  of  myriads  of  poor  bodies 
only,  but  of  will,  and  mercy,  and  conscience ;  death,  not 
once  inflicted  on  the  flesh,  but  daily,  fastening  on  the 
spirit ;  death,  not  silent  or  patient,  waiting  his  appointed 
hour,  but  voiceful,  venomous ;  death  with  the  taunting 
word,  and  burning  grasp,  and  infixed  sting. 

"Put  ye  in  the  sickle,  for  the  harvest  is  ripe."  *  The 
word  is  spoken  in  our  ears  continually  to  other  reapers 
than  the  angels,  —  to  the  busy  skeletons  that  never 
tire  for  stooping.  When  the  measure  of  iniquity  is  full, 
and  it  seems  that  another  day  might  bring  repentance 
and  redemption,  —  "Put  ye  in  the  sickle."  When  the 
young  life  has  been  wasted  all  aw^ay,  and  the  eyes  are 
just  opening  upon  the  tracks  of  ruin,  and  faint  resolu- 
tion rising  in  the  heart  for  nobler  things,  —  "  Put  ye  in 
the  sickle."  When  the  roughest  blows  of  fortune  have 
^  Joel  iii,  13. 


136  MODERN  PAINTERS 

boon  borne  long  and  bravely,  and  the  hand  is  just 
stretched  to  grasp  its  goal,  —  "  Put  ye  in  the  sickle." 
And  when  there  are  but  a  few  in  the  midst  of  a  nation, 
to  save  it,  or  to  teach,  or  to  cherish;  and  all  its  life  is 
bound  up  in  those  few  golden  ears,  —  "  Put  ye  in  the 
sickle,  pale  reapers,  and  pour  hemlock  for  your  feast 
of  harvest  home." 

This  was  the  sight  which  opened  on  the  young  eyes, 
this  the  watchword  sounding  within  the  heart  of 
Turner  in  his  youth. 

So  taught,  and  prepared  for  his  life's  labour,  sate  the 
boy  at  last  alone  among  his  fair  English  hills ;  and  began 
to  paint,  with  cautious  toil,  the  rocks,  an.d  fields,  and 
trickling  brooks,  and  soft  white  clouds  of  heaven. 


SELECTIONS   FROM 
THE   STONES   OF   VENICE 

The  first  volume  of  The  Sto7ies  of  Venice  appeared  in 
March,  1851 ;  the  first  day  of  May  of  the  same  year  we 
find  the  following  entry  in  Buskin's  diary  :  *'  About  to 
enter  on  the  true  beginning  of  the  second  part  of  my  Vene- 
tian work.  May  God  help  me  to  finish  it  —  to  His  glory, 
and  man's  good."  The  main  part  of  the  volume  was  com- 
posed at  Venice  in  the  winter  of  1851-52,  though  it  did 
not  appear  until  the  end  of  July,  1853.  His  work  on 
architecture,  including  The  Seven  Lam,ps,  it  will  be 
noted,,  intervenes  between  the  composition  of  the  second 
and  third  volumes  of  Moder^i  Painters  ;  and  Ruskin  him- 
self always  looked  upon  the  work  as  an  interlude,  almost 
as  an  interruption.  But  he  also  came  to  believe  that  this 
digression  had  really  led  back  to  the  heart  of  the  truth  for 
all  art.  Its  main  theme,  as  in  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Archi- 
tecture, is  its  illustration  of  the  principle  that  architecture 
expresses  certain  states  in  the  moral  temper  of  the  people 
by  arid  for  whom  it  is  produced.  It  may  surprise  us  to-day 
to  know  that  when  Buskin  wrote  of  the  glories  of  Vene- 
tian architecture,  the  common  "  professional  opinion  was 
that  St.  Mark's  and  the  Ducal  Palace  were  as  ugly  and 
repulsive  as  they  were  contrary  to  rule  and  order."  In  a 
private  letter  Gibbon  writes  of  the  Square  of  St.  Mark's  as 
"  a  large  square  decorated  with  the  worst  architecture  I 
ever  saw."  The  architects  of  his  own  time  regarded  Bus- 
kin's opinions  as  dictated  by  wild  caprice,  and  almost 
evincing  an  unbalanced  mind.  Probably  the  core  of  all 
this  architectural  work  is  to  be  found  in  his  chapter  "  On 
the  Nature  of  Gothic,"  in  the  main  reproduced  in  this  vol- 
ume. And  we  find  here  again  a  point  of  fundamental  sig- 
nificance - —  that  his  artistic  analysis  led  him  inevitably 
on  to  social  inquiries.  He  proved  to  himself  that  the 
main  virtue  of  Gothic  lay  in  the  unrestricted  play  of  the 


138  THE  STONES   OF  VENICE 

individual  imagination  ;  that  the  best  results  were  produced 
when  every  artist  was  a  workman  and  every  workman  aa 
artist.  Twenty  years  after  the  publication  of  this  book,  he 
wrote  in  a  private  letter  that  his  main  purpose  "  was  to 
show  the  dependence  of  (architectural)  beauty  on  the  hap- 
piness and  fancy  of  the  workman,  and  to  show  also  that 
no  architect  could  claim  the  title  to  authority  of  Maglster 
unless  he  himself  wrought  at  the  head  of  his  men,  captain 
of  manual  skill,  as  the  best  knight  is  captain  of  armies." 
He  himself  called  the  chapter  "precisely  and  accurately 
the  most  im.portant  in  the  whole  book."  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  says  that  in  it  is  "  the  creed,  if  it  be  not  the 
origin,  of  a  new  industrial  school  of  thought." 


THE  THRONE 

Volume  II,  Chapter  1 

In  the  olden  days  of  travelling,  now  to  return  no 
more,  in  which  distance  could  not  be  vanquished  with- 
out toil,  but  in  which  that  toil  was  rewarded,  partly  by 
the  power  of  deliberate  survey  of  the  countries  through 
•which  the  journey  lay,  and  partly  by  the  happiness  of 
the  evening  hours,  when  from  the  top  of  the  last  hill  he 
had  surmounted,  the  traveller  beheld  the  quiet  village 
where  he  was  to  rest,  scattered  among  the  meadows 
beside  its  valley  stream;  or,  from  the  long  hoped  for 
turn  in  the  dusty  perspective  of  the  causeway,  saw,  for 
the  first  time,  the  towers  of  some  famed  city,  faint  in 
the  rays  of  sunset  —  hours  of  peaceful  and  thoughtful 
pleasure,  for  which  the  rush  of  the  arrival  in  the  railway 
station  is  perhaps  not  always,  or  to  all  men,  an  equiva- 
lent, —  in  those  days,  I  say,  when  there  was  something 
more  to  be  anticipated  and  remembered  in  the  first 
aspect  of  each  successive  halting-place,  than  a  new 


THE  THRONE  139 

arrangement  of  glass  roofing  and  iron  girder,  there  were 
few  moments  of  which  the  recollection  was  more  fondly 
cherished  by  the  traveller,  than  that  which,  as  I  en- 
deavoured to  describe  in  the  close  of  the  last  chapter, 
brought  him  within  sight  of  Venice,  as  his  gondola  shot 
into  the  open  lagoon  from  the  canal  of  Mestre.  Not  but 
that  the  aspect  of  the  city  itself  was  generally  the  source 
of  some  slight  disappointment,  for,  seen  in  this  direc- 
tion, its  buildings  are  far  less  characteristic  than  those 
of  the  other  great  towns  of  Italy ;  but  this  inferiority  was 
partly  disguised  by  distance,  and  more  than  atoned  for 
by  the  strange  rising  of  its  walls  and  towers  out  of  the 
midst,  as  it  seemed,  of  the  deep  sea,  for  it  was  impos- 
sible that  the  mind  or  the  eye  could  at  once  comprehend 
the  shallowness  of  the  vast  sheet  of  water  which 
stretched  away  in  leagues  of  rippling  lustre  to  the  north 
and  south,  or  trace  the  narrow  line  of  islets  bounding  it 
to  the  east.  The  salt  breeze,  the  white  moaning  sea- 
birds,  the  masses  of  black  weed  separating  and  disap- 
pearing gradually,  in  knots  of  heaving  shoal,  under  the 
advance  of  the  steady  tide,  all  proclaimed  it  to  be  indeed 
the  ocean  on  whose  bosom  the  great  city  rested  so 
calmly;  not  such  blue,  soft,  lake-like  ocean  as  bathes 
the  Neapolitan  promontories,  or  sleeps  beneath  the 
marble  rocks  of  Genoa,  but  a  sea  with  the  bleak  power 
of  our  own  northern  waves,  yet  subdued  into  a  strange 
spacious  rest,  and  changed  from  its  angry  pallor  into  a 
field  of  burnished  gold,  as  the  sun  declined  behind  the 
belfry  tower  of  the  lonely  island  church,  fitly  named 
"  St.  George  of  the  Seaweed."  As  the  boat  drew  nearer 
to  the  city,  the  coast  which  the  traveller  had  just  left 
sank  behind  him  into  one  long,  low,  sad-coloured  line, 
tufted  irregularly  with  brushwood  and  willows  :  but,  at 
what  seemed  its  northern  extremity,  the  hills  of  Arqua 


140  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

rose  in  a  dark  cluster  of  purple  pyramids,  balanced  on 
the  bright  mirage  of  the  lagoon ;  two  or  three  smooth 
surges  of  inferior  hill  extended  themselves  about  their 
roots,  and  beyond  these,  beginning  with  the  craggy 
peaks  above  Vicenza,  the  chain  of  the  Alps  girded  the 
whole  horizon  to  the  north  —  a  wall  of  jagged  blue, 
here  and  there  showing  through  its  clefts  a  wilderness 
of  misty  precipices,  fading  far  back  into  the  recesses  of 
Cadore,  and  itself  rising  and  breaking  away  eastward, 
where  the  sun  struck  opposite  upon  its  snow,  into 
mighty  fragments  of  peaked  light,  standing  up  behind 
the  barred  clouds  of  evening,  one  after  another,  count- 
less, the  crown  of  the  Adrian  Sea,  until  the  eye  turned 
back  from  pursuing  them,  to  rest  upon  the  nearer 
burning  of  the  campaniles  of  Murano,  and  on  the  great 
city,  where  it  magnified  itself  along  the  waves,  as  the 
quick  silent  pacing  of  the  gondola  drew  nearer  and 
nearer.  And  at  last,  when  its  walls  were  reached,  and 
the  outmost  of  its  untrodden  streets  was  entered,  not 
through  towered  gate  or  guarded  rampart,  but  as  a 
deep  inlet  between  two  rocks  of  coral  in  the  Indian  sea ; 
when  first  upon  the  traveller's  sight  opened  the  long 
ranges  of  columned  palaces,  —  each  with  its  black  boat 
moored  at  the  portal,  —  each  with  its  image  cast  down, 
beneath  its  feet,  upon  that  green  pavement  which  every 
breeze  broke  into  new  fantasies  of  rich  tessellation ; 
when  first,  at  the  extremity  of  the  bright  vista,  the 
shadowy  Rialto  threw  its  colossal  curve  slowly  forth 
from  behind  the  palace  of  the  Camerlenghi ;  ^  that 
strange  curve,  so  delicate,  so  adamantine,  strong  as  a 
paountain  cavern,  graceful  as  a  bow  just  bent;  when 

^  The  palace  of  the  Camerlenghi,  beside  the  Rialto,  is  a  graceful 
work  of  the  early  Renaissance  (1525)  passing  into  Roman  Renais- 
sance.  [Adapted  from  Ruskin.] 


THE  THRONE  141 

first,  before  its  moonlike  circumference  was  all  risen, 
the  gondolier's  cry,  "Ah!  Stall,"  ^  struck  sharp  upon 
the  ear,  and  the  prow  turned  aside  under  the  mighty 
cornices  that  half  met  over  the  narrow  canal,  where  the 
plash  of  the  water  followed  close  and  loud,  ringing 
along  the  marble  by  the  boat's  side ;  and  when  at  last 
that  boat  darted  forth  upon  the  breadth  of  silver  sea, 
across  which  the  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  flushed  with 
its  sanguine  veins,  looks  to  the  snowy  dome  of  Our  Lady 
of  Salvation,^  it  was  no  marvel  that  the  mind  should  be 
so  deeply  entranced  by  the  visionary  charm  of  a  scene 
so  beautiful  and  so  strange,  as  to  forget  the  darker 
truths  of  its  history  and  its  being.  Well  might  it  seem 
that  such  a  city  had  owed  her  existence  rather  to  the  rod 
of  the  enchanter,  than  the  fear  of  the  fugitive ;  that  the 
waters  which  encircled  her  had  been  chosen  for  the 
mirror  of  her  state,  rather  than  the  shelter  of  her  naked- 
ness ;  and  that  all  which  in  nature  was  wild  or  merciless, 

—  Time  and  Decay,  as  well  as  the  waves  and  tempests, 

—  had  been  won  to  adorn  her  instead  of  to  destroy,  and 
might  still  spare,  for  ages  to  come,  that  beauty  which 
seemed  to  have  fixed  for  its  throne  the  sands  of  the 
hour-glass  as  well  as  of  the  sea. 

And  although  the  last  few  eventful  years,  fraught 
with  change  to  the  face  of  the  whole  earth,  have  been 
more  fatal  in  their  influence  on  Venice  than  the  five  hun- 
dred that  preceded  them ;  though  the  noble  landscape 
of  approach  to  her  can  now  be  seen  no  more,  or  seen 
only  by  a  glance,  as  the  engine  slackens  its  rushing  on 
the  iron  line ;  and  though  many  of  her  palaces  are  for 
ever  defaced,  and  many  in  desecrated  ruins,  there  is 
still  so  much  of  magic  in  her  aspect,  that  the  hurried 

*  Sij^nifyiiif^  approximately  "  Keep  to  the  right." 
2  See  note  1,  p.  129. 


142  THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

traveller,  who  must  leave  her  before  the  wonder  of  that 
first  aspect  has  been  worn  away,  may  still  be  led  to  for- 
get the  humility  of  her  origin,  and  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the 
depth  of  her  desolation.  They,  at  least,  are  little  to  be 
envied,  in  whose  hearts  the  great  charities  of  the 
imagination  lie  dead,  and  for  whom  the  fancy  has  no 
power  to  repress  the  importunity  of  painful  impressions, 
or  to  raise  what  is  ignoble,  and  disguise  what  is  dis- 
cordant, in  a  scene  so  rich  in  its  remembrances,  so  sur- 
passing in  its  beauty.  But  for  this  work  of  the  imagina- 
tion there  must  be  no  permission  during  the  task  w  hich 
is  before  us.  The  impotent  feelings  of  romance,  so  sin- 
gularly characteristic  of  this  century,  may  indeed  gild, 
but  never  save,  the  remains  of  those  mightier  ages  to 
which  they  are  attached  like  climbing  flowers ;  and  they 
must  be  torn  away  from  the  magnificent  fragments,  if 
we  would  see  them  as  they  stood  in  their  own  strength. 
Those  feelings,  always  as  fruitless  as  they  are  fond, 
are  in  Venice  not  only  incapable  of  protecting,  but  even 
of  discerning,  the  objects  to  which  they  ought  to  have 
been  attached.  The  Venice  of  modern  fiction  and 
drama  is  a  thing  of  yesterday,  a  mere  efflorescence  of 
decay,  a  stage  dream  which  the  first  ray  of  daylight 
must  dissipate  into  dust.  No  prisoner,  whose  name  is 
worth  remembering,  or  whose  sorrow  deserved  sym- 
pathy, ever  crossed  that  "Bridge  of  Sighs,"  which  is 
the  centre  of  the  Byronic  ideal  of  Venice;^  no  great 
merchant  of  Venice  ever  saw  that  Rialto  under  which 
the  traveller  now  passes  with  breathless  interest :  the 
statue  which  Byron  makes  Faliero  address  as  of  one  of 
his  great  ancestors  w^as  erected  to  a  soldier  of  fortune  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  after  Faliero's  death ;  ^  and  the 
most  conspicuous  parts  of  the  city  have  been  so  entirely 

»  Childe  Harold,  4.  1.  ^  Marino  Faliero,  3.  1.  22  ff. 


THE  THROiNE  143 

altered  in  the  course  of  the  last  three  centuries,  that  if 
Henry  Dandolo  or  Francis  Foscari  ^  could  be  sum- 
moned from  their  tombs,  and  stood  each  on  the  deck 
of  his  galley  at  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal,  that 
renowned  entrance,  the  painter's  favourite  subject,  the 
novelist's  favourite  scene,  where  the  water  first  nar- 
rows by  the  steps  of  the  Church  of  La  Salute,  —  the 
mighty  Doges  w^ould  not  know  in  what  part  of  the 
world  they  stood,  would  literally  not  recognize  one  stone 
of  the  great  city,  for  whose  sake,  and  by  whose  ingrati- 
tude, their  grey  hairs  had  been  brought  down  with  bit- 
terness to  the  grave.  The  remains  of  their  Venice  lie 
hidden  behind  the  cumbrous  masses  which  were  the 
delight  of  the  nation  in  its  dotage ;  hidden  in  many  a 
grass-grown  court,  and  silent  pathway,  and  lightless 
canal,  where  the  slow  waves  have  sapped  their  founda- 
tions for  five  hundred  years,  and  must  soon  prevail  over 
them  for  ever.  It  must  be  our  task  to  glean  and  gather 
them  forth,  and  restore  out  of  them  some  faint  image 
of  the  lost  city ;  more  gorgeous  a  thousandfold  than  that 
which  now  exists,  yet  not  created  in  the  day-dream  of 
the  prince,  nor  by  the  ostentation  of  the  noble,  but 
built  by  iron  hands  and  patient  hearts,  contending 
against  the  adversity  of  nature  and  the  fury  of  man, 
so  that  its  wonderfulness  cannot  be  grasped  by  the 
indolence  of  imagination,  but  only  after  frank  inquiry 
into  the  true  nature  of  that  wild  and  solitary  scene, 
whose  restless  tides  and  trembling  sands  did  indeed 
shelter  the  birth  of  the  city,  but  long  denied  her  do- 
minion. 

When  the  eye  falls  casually  on  a  map  of  Europe, 
there  is  no  feature  by  which  it  is   more   likely  to  be 

1  Dandolo  [c.  1108-1205]  and  Foscari  [1372-1457]  were  among 
the  most  famous  of  Venetian  Doges. 


144  THE   STONES   OF  VENICE 

arrested  than  the  strange  sweeping  loop  formed  by  the 
junction  of  the  Alps  and  Apennines,  and  enclosing  the 
great  basin  of  Lombardy.  This  return  of  the  mountain 
chain  upon  itself  causes  a  vast  difference  in  the  charac- 
ter of  the  distribution  of  its  debris  on  its  opposite  sides. 
The  rock  fragments  and  sediment  which  the  torrents  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Alps  bear  into  the  plains  are  dis- 
tributed over  a  vast  extent  of  country,  and,  though  here 
and  there  lodged  in  beds  of  enormous  thickness,  soon 
permit  the  firm  substrata  to  appear  from  underneath 
them;  but  all  the  torrents  w^hich  descend  from  the 
southern  side  of  the  High  Alps,  and  from  the  northern 
slope  of  the  Apennines,  meet  concentrically  in  the  re- 
cess or  mountain  bay  which  the  two  ridges  enclose ; 
every  fragment  which  thunder  breaks  out  of  their  bat- 
tlements, and  every  grain  of  dust  which  the  summer 
rain  washes  from  their  pastures,  is  at  last  laid  at  rest  in 
the  blue  sweep  of  the  Lombardic  plain ;  and  that  plain 
must  have  risen  within  its  rocky  barriers  as  a  cup  fills 
with  wine,  but  for  two  contrary  influences  w^hich  con- 
tinually depress,  or  disperse  from  its  surface,  the  accu- 
mulation of  the  ruins  of  ages. 

I  will  not  tax  the  reader's  faith  in  modern  science  by 
insisting  on  the  singular  depression  of  the  surface  of 
Lombardy,  which  appears  for  many  centuries  to  have 
taken  place  steadily  and  continually ;  the  main  fact  with 
which  we  have  to  do  is  the  gradual  transport,  by  the  Po 
and  its  great  collateral  rivers,  of  vast  masses  of  the  finer 
sediment  to  the  sea.  The  character  of  the  Lombardic 
plains  is  most  strikingly  expressed  by  the  ancient  walls 
of  its  cities,  composed  for  the  most  part  of  large  rounded 
Alpine  pebbles  alternating  w^ith  narrow  courses  of 
brick;  and  was  curiously  illustrated  in  1848,  by  the 
ramparts  of  these  same  pebbles  thrown  up  four  or  five 


THE  THRONE  145 

feet  high  round  every  field,  to  check  the  Austrian 
cavalry  in  the  battle  under  the  walls  of  Verona.^  The 
finer  dust  among  which  these  pebbles  are  dispersed  is 
taken  up  by  the  rivers,  fed  into  continual  strength  by 
the  Alpine  snow,  so  that,  however  pure  their  waters  may 
be  when  they  issue  from  the  lakes  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
chain,  they  become  of  the  colour  and  opacity  of  clay 
before  they  reach  the  Adriatic ;  the  sediment  which  they 
bear  is  at  once  thrown  down  as  they  enter  the  sea, 
forming  a  vast  belt  of  low  land  along  the  eastern  coast  of 
Italy.  The  powerful  stream  of  the  Po  of  course  builds 
forward  the  fastest ;  on  each  side  of  it,  north  and  south, 
there  is  a  tract  of  marsh,  fed  by  more  feeble  streams, 
and  less  liable  to  rapid  change  than  the  delta  of  the 
central  river.  In  one  of  these  tracts  is  built  Ravenna, 
and  in  the  other  Venice. 

What  circumstances  directed  the  peculiar  arrange- 
ment of  this  great  belt  of  sediment  in  the  earliest  times, 
it  is  not  here  the  place  to  inquire.  It  is  enough  for  us  to 
know  that  from  the  mouths  of  the  Adige  to  those  of  the 
Piave  there  stretches,  at  a  variable  distance  of  from 
three  to  five  miles  from  the  actual  shore,  a  bank  of 
sand,  divided  into  long  islands  by  narrow  channels  of 
sea.  The  space  between  this  bank  and  the  true  shore 
consists  of  the  sedimentary  deposits  from  these  and  other 
rivers,  a  great  plain  of  calcareous  mud,  covered,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Venice,  by  the  sea  at  high  water,  to 
the  depth  in  most  places  of  a  foot  or  a  foot  and  a  half, 
and  nearly  everywhere  exposed  at  low  tide,  but  divided 
by  an  intricate  network  of  narrow  and  winding  chan- 
nels, from  which  the  sea  never  retires.  In  some  places, 
according  to  the  run  of  the  currents,  the  land  has  risen 

^  In  the  battle  of  Custozza,  1848,  the  Austrians  defeated  the 
Piedmontese. 


146  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

into  marshy  islets,  consolidated,  some  by  art,  and  some 
by  time,  into  ground  firm  enough  to  be  built  upon,  or 
fruitful  enough  to  be  cultivated  :  in  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  has  not  reached  the  sea  level ;  so  that,  at  the 
average  low  water,  shallow  lakelets  glitter  among  its 
irregularly  exposed  fields  of  seaweed.  In  the  midst  of 
the  largest  of  these,  increased  in  importance  by  the  con- 
fluence of  several  large  river  channels  towards  one  of 
the  openings  in  the  sea  bank,  the  city  of  Venice  itself  is 
built,  on  a  crowded  cluster  of  islands ;  the  various  plots 
of  higher  ground  which  appear  to  the  north  and  south 
of  this  central  cluster,  have  at  different  periods  been 
also  thickly  inhabited,  and  now  bear,  according  to  their 
size,  the  remains  of  cities,  villages,  or  isolated  convents 
and  churches,  scattered  among  spaces  of  open  ground, 
partly  waste  and  encumbered  by  ruins,  partly  under 
cultivation  for  the  supply  of  the  metropolis. 

The  average  rise  and  fall  of  the  tide  is  about  three 
feet  (varying  considerably  with  the  seasons) ;  but  this 
fall,  on  so  flat  a  shore,  is  enough  to  cause  continual 
movement  in  the  waters,  and  in  the  main  canals  to  pro- 
duce a  reflux  which  frequently  runs  like  a  mill  stream. 
At  high  water  no  land  is  visible  for  many  miles  to  the 
north  or  south  of  Venice,  except  in  the  form  of  small 
islands  crowned  with  towers  or  gleaming  with  villages : 
there  is  a  channel,  some  three  miles  wide,  betw^een  the 
city  and  the  mainland,  and  some  mile  and  a  half  wide 
between  it  and  the  sandy  breakwater  called  the  Lido, 
which  divides  the  lagoon  from  the  Adriatic,  but  which 
is  so  low  as  hardly  to  disturb  the  impression  of  the  city's 
having  been  built  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean,  although 
the  secret  of  its  true  position  is  partly,  yet  not  painfully, 
betrayed  by  the  clusters  of  piles  set  to  mark  the  deep- 
water  channels,  which  undulate  far  away  in  spotty 


THE  THRONE  147 

chains  like  the  studded  backs  of  huge  sea-snakes,  and 
by  the  quick  gHttering  of  the  crisped  and  crowded 
waves  that  flicker  and  dance  before  the  strong  winds 
upon  the  uplifted  level  of  the  shallow  sea.  But  the  scene 
is  widely  different  at  low  tide.  A  fall  of  eighteen  or 
twenty  inches  is  enough  to  show  ground  over  the  greater 
part  of  the  lagoon ;  and  at  the  complete  ebb  the  city  is 
seen  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  dark  plain  of  sea-weed, 
of  gloomy  green,  except  only  w^here  the  larger  branches 
of  the  Brenta  and  its  associated  streams  converge 
towards  the  port  of  the  Lido.  Through  this  salt  and 
sombre  plain  the  gondola  and  the  fishing-boat  advance 
by  tortuous  channels,  seldom  more  than  four  or  five 
feet  deep,  and  often  so  choked  with  slime  that  the 
heavier  keels  furrow  the  bottom  till  their  crossing  tracks 
are  seen  through  the  clear  sea  water  like  the  ruts  upon  a 
wintry  road,  and  the  oar  leaves  blue  gashes  upon  the 
ground  at  every  stroke,  or  is  entangled  among  the  thick 
weed  that  fringes  the  banks  w^ith  the  weight  of  its  sullen 
waves,  leaning  to  and  fro  upon  the  uncertain  sway  of 
the  exhausted  tide.  The  scene  is  often  profoundly 
oppressive,  even  at  this  day,  when  every  plot  of  higher 
ground  bears  some  fragment  of  fair  building :  but,  in 
order  to  know  what  it  was  once,  let  the  traveller  follow 
in  his  boat  at  evening  the  windings  of  some  unfre- 
quented channel  far  into  the  midst  of  the  melancholy 
plain ;  let  him  remove,  in  his  imagination,  the  brightness 
of  the  great  city  that  still  extends  itself  in  the  distance, 
and  the  w  alls  and  towers  from  the  islands  that  are  near ; 
and  so  w^ait,  until  the  bright  investiture  and  sweet 
warmth  of  the  sunset  are  w-ithdrawn  from  the  waters, 
and  the  black  desert  of  their  shore  lies  in  its  nakedness 
beneath  the  night,  pathless,  comfortless,  infirm,  lost  in 
dark  languor  and  fearful  silence,  except  where  the  salt 


14S  THE  STONES   OF  VENICE 

runlets  plash  into  the  tideless  pools,  or  the  sea-birds  flit 
from  their  margins  with  a  questioning  cry;  and  he  will 
be  enabled  to  enter  in  some  sort  into  the  horror  of  heart 
with  which  this  solitude  was  anciently  chosen  by  man 
for  his  habitation.  They  little  thought,  who  first  drove 
the  stakes  into  the  sand,  and  strewed  the  ocean  reeds 
for  their  rest,  that  their  children  were  to  be  the  princes 
of  that  ocean,  and  their  palaces  its  pride;  and  yet,  in 
the  great  natural  laws  that  rule  that  sorrowful  wilder- 
ness, let  it  be  remembered  what  strange  preparation 
had  been  made  for  the  thino^s  which  no  human  imairina- 
tion  could  have  foretold,  and  how  the  whole  existence 
and  fortune  of  the  Venetian  nation  w^ere  anticipated  or 
compelled,  by  the  setting  of  those  bars  and  doors  to  the 
rivers  and  the  sea.  Had  deeper  currents  divided  their 
islands,  hostile  navies  would  again  and  again  have 
reduced  the  rising  city  into  servitude;  had  stronger 
surges  beaten  their  shores,  all  the  richness  and  refine- 
ment of  the  Venetian  architecture  must  have  been 
exchanged  for  the  walls  and  bulwarks  of  an  ordinary 
sea-port.  Had  there  been  no  tide,  as  in  other  parts  of 
the  Mediterranean,  the  narrow  canals  of  the  city  would 
have  become  noisome,  and  the  marsh  in  which  it  was 
built  pestiferous.  Had  the  tide  been  only  a  foot  or 
eighteen  inches  higher  in  its  rise,  the  water-access  to 
the  doors  of  the  palaces  would  have  been  impossible : 
even  as  it  is,  there  is  sometimes  a  little  diflSculty,  at  the 
ebb,  in  landing  without  setting  foot  upon  the  lower  and 
slippery  steps ;  and  the  highest  tides  sometimes  enter 
the  courtyards,  and  overflow  the  entrance  halls.  Eigh- 
teen inches  more  of  difference  between  the  level  of  the 
flood  and  ebb  would  have  rendered  the  doorsteps  of 
every  palace,  at  low  water,  a  treacherous  mass  of  weeds 
and  limpets,  and  the  entire  system  of  water-carriage  for 


THE   THRONE  149 

the  higher  classes,  in  their  easy  and  daily  intercourse, 
must  have  been  done  away  with.  The  streets  of  the  city 
would  have  been  widened,  its  network  of  canals  filled 
up,  and  all  the  peculiar  character  of  the  place  and  the 
people  destroyed. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  have  felt  some  pain  in  the 
contrast  between  this  faithful  view  of  the  site  of  the 
Venetian  Throne,  and  the  romantic  conception  of  it 
which  we  ordinarily  form;  but  this  pain,  if  he  have  felt 
it,  ought  to  be  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  value 
of  the  instance  thus  afforded  to  us  at  once  of  the  in- 
scrutableness  and  the  wisdom  of  the  ways  of  God.  If, 
two  thousand  years  ago,  we  had  been  permitted  to 
watch  the  slow  settling  of  the  slime  of  those  turbid 
rivers  into  the  polluted  sea,  and  the  gaining  upon  its 
deep  and  fresh  waters  of  the  lifeless,  impassable,  unvoy- 
ageable  plain,  how  little  could  we  have  understood  the 
purpose  with  which  those  islands  were  shaped  out  of  the 
void,  and  the  torpid  waters  enclosed  with  their  desolate 
walls  of  sand !  How  little  could  we  have  known,  any 
more  than  of  what  now  seems  to  us  most  distressful, 
dark,  and  objectless,  the  glorious  aim  which  was  then 
in  the  mind  of  Him  in  whose  hand  are  all  the  corners  of 
the  earth !  how  little  imagined  that  in  the  laws  which 
were  stretching  forth  the  gloomy  margins  of  those  fruit- 
less banks,  and  feeding  the  bitter  grass  among  their 
shallows,  there  was  indeed  a  preparation,  and  the  only 
preparation  possible,  for  the  founding  of  a  city  which 
was  to  be  set  like  a  golden  clasp  on  the  girdle  of  the 
earth,  to  write  her  history  on  the  white  scrolls  of  the 
sea-surges,  and  to  word  it  in  their  thunder,  and  to 
gather  and  give  forth,  in  world-wide  pulsation,  the  glory 
of  the  West  and  of  the  East,  from  the  burning  heart  of 
her  Fortitude  and  Splendour. 


150  THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

ST.  MARK'S 

Volume  II,  Chapter  4 

"And  so  Barnabas  took  Mark,  and  sailed  unto 
Cyprus."  If  as  the  shores  of  Asia  lessened  upon  his 
sight,  the  spirit  of  prophecy  had  entered  into  the  heart 
of  the  weak  disciple  who  had  turned  back  when  his 
hand  was  on  the  plough,  and  who  had  been  judged,  by 
the  chiefest  of  Christ's  captains,  unworthy  thencefor- 
ward to  go  forth  with  him  to  the  work,^  how  wonderful 
would  he  have  thought  it,  that  by  the  lion  symbol  in  fu- 
ture ages  he  was  to  be  represented  among  men !  how 
woful,  that  the  war-cry  of  his  name  should  so  often 
reanimate  the  rage  of  the  soldier,  on  those  very  plains 
where  he  himself  had  failed  in  the  courage  of  the  Chris- 
tian, and  so  often  dye  with  fruitless  blood  that  very 
Cypriot  Sea,  over  whose  waves,  in  repentance  and 
shame,  he  was  following  the  Son  of  Consolation ! 

That  the  Venetians  possessed  themselves  of  his  body 
in  the  ninth  century,  there  appears  no  sufficient  reason 
to  doubt,  nor  that  it  was  principally  in  consequence 
of  their  having  done  so,  that  they  chose  him  for  their 
patron  saint.  There  exists,  however,  a  tradition  that 
before  he  went  into  Egypt  he  had  founded  the  church 
at  Aquileia,  and  was  thus  in  some  sort  the  first  bishop 
of  the  Venetian  isles  and  people.  I  believe  that  this 
tradition  stands  on  nearly  as  good  grounds  as  that  of 
St.  Peter  having  been  the  first  bishop  of  Rome  ^ ;  but,  as 
usual,  it  is  enriched  by  various  later  additions  and  em- 

*  Ads  xiii,  13  and  xv,  38,  39.    [Ruskin.] 

^  The  reader  who  desires  to  investigate  it  may  consult  GalHciolli, 
Delle  Memorie  Vcnete  (Venice,  1795),  torn.  2,  p.  332,  and  the  au- 
thorities quoted  by  him.    [Ruskin.] 


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ST.   MARK'S  151 

bellishments,  much  resembling  the  stories  told  respect- 
ing the  church  of  Murano.  Thus  we  find  it  recorded  by 
the  Santo  Padre  who  compiled  the  Vite  de'  Santi  spet- 
tanti  alle  Chiese  di  Venezia,^  that  "St.  Mark  having 
seen  the  people  of  Aquileia  well  grounded  in  religion, 
and  being  called  to  Rome  by  St.  Peter,  before  setting  off 
took  with  him  the  holy  bishop  Hermagoras,  and  went 
in  a  small  boat  to  the  marshes  of  Venice.  There  were  at 
that  period  some  houses  built  upon  a  certain  high  bank 
called  Rialto,  and  the  boat  being  driven  by  the  wind 
was  anchored  in  a  marshy  place,  when  St.  Mark, 
snatched  into  ecstasy,  heard  the  voice  of  an  angel  say- 
ing to  him :  •'  Peace  be  to  thee,  Mark ;  here  shall  thy 
body  rest.'  "  The  angel  goes  on  to  foretell  the  building 
of  "  una  stupenda,  ne  piu  veduta  Citta  "  ^ ;  but  the  fable 
is  hardly  ingenious  enough  to  deserve  farther  relation. 
But  whether  St.  Mark  was  first  bishop  of  Aquileia  or 
not,  St.  Theodore  was  the  first  patron  of  the  city;  nor 
can  he  yet  be  considered  as  having  entirely  abdicated 
his  early  right,  as  his  statue,  standing  on  a  crocodile, 
still  companions  the  winged  lion  on  the  opposing  pillar 
of  the  piazzetta.  A  church  erected  to  this  Saint  is  said 
to  have  occupied,  before  the  ninth  century,  the  site  of 
St.  Mark's ;  and  the  traveller,  dazzled  by  the  brilliancy 
of  the  great  square,  ought  not  to  leave  it  without  en- 
deavouring to  imagine  its  aspect  in  that  early  time, 
when  it  was  a  green  field  cloister-like  and  quiet, ^  divided 
by  a  small  canal,  with  a  line  of  trees  on  each  side ;  and 
extending  between  the  two  churches  of  St.  Theodore 

*  Venice,  1761    torn,  1,  p.  126.    [Ruskin.] 

2  A  wonderful  City,  such  as  was  never  seen  before. 

3  St.  Mark's  Place,  "partly  covered  by  turf,  and  planted  with  a 
few  trees;  and  on  account  of  its  pleasant  aspect  called  Brollo  or 
Brofjlio,  that  is  to  say.  Garden."  The  canal  passed  throuf^h  it,  over 
which  is  built  the  bridge  of  the  Malpassi.  GallicioUi,  lib.  i,  cap. 
viii.    [Ruskin.] 


152  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

and  St.  Gemanium,  as  the  little  piazza  of  Torcello  lies 
between  its  "palazzo"  and  cathedral. 

But  in  the  year  813,  when  the  seat  of  government  was 
finally  removed  to  the  Rialto,  a  Ducal  Palace,  built  on 
the  spot  where  the  present  one  stands,  with  a  Ducal 
Chapel  beside  it,^  gave  a  very  different  character  to  the 
Square  of  St.  Mark ;  and  fifteen  years  later,  the  acquisi- 
tion of  the  body  of  the  Saint,  and  its  deposition  in  the 
Ducal  Chapel,  perhaps  not  yet  completed,  occasioned 
the  investiture  of  that  chapel  with  all  possible  splen- 
dour. St.  Theodore  was  deposed  from  his  patronship, 
and  his  church  destroyed,  to  make  room  for  the  ag- 
grandizement of  the  one  attached  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 
and  thenceforward  known  as  "  St.  Mark's."  ^ 

This  first  church  was  however  destroyed  by  fire, 
when  the  Ducal  Palace  was  burned  in  the  revolt  against 
Candiano,  in  976.  It  was  partly  rebuilt  by  his  successor, 
Pietro  Orseolo,  on  a  larger  scale;  and, with  the  assist- 
ance of  Byzantine  architects,  the  fabric  was  carried  on 
under  successive  Doges  for  nearly  a  hundred  years ;  the 
main  building  being  completed  in  1071,  but  its  incrusta- 
tion with  marble  not  till  considerably  later.  It  was  con- 
secrated on  the  8th  of  October,  1085,^  according  to 
Sansovino  and  the  author  of  the  Chiesa  Diicale  di  S. 
Marco,  in   1094   according  to   Lazari,   but  certainly 

*  My  authorities  for  this  statement  are  given  below,  in  the  chapter 
on  the  Ducal  Palace.    [Ruskin.] 

^  In  the  Chronicles,  Sancti  Marci  Ducal  is  Cappella.  [Ruskin.] 
,  ^  "To  God  the  Lord,  the  glorious  Virgin  Annunciate,  and  the 
Protector  St.  Mark."  — Corner,  p.  14.  It  is  needless  to  trouble  the 
reader  with  the  various  authorities  for  the  above  statements:  I  have 
consulted  the  best.  The  previous  inscription  once  existing  on  the 
church  itself: 

Anno  milleno  transacto  bisque  trigeno 
Desuper  undecimo  fuit  facta  primo, 

is  no  longer  to  be  seen,  and  is  conjectured  by  Corner,  with  much 
probability,  to  have  perished  "in  qualche  ristauro."   [Ruskin.] 


ST.   MARK'S  153 

between  1084  and  1096,  those  years  being  the  limits 
of  the  reign  of  Vital  Falier ;  I  incline  to  the  supposition 
that  it  was  soon  after  his  accession  to  the  throne  in 
1085,  though  Sansovino  writes,  by  mistake,  Ordelafo 
instead  of  Vital  Falier.  But,  at  all  events,  before  the 
close  of  the  eleventh  century  the  great  consecration  of 
the  church  took  place.  It  was  again  injured  by  fire  in 
1106,  but  repaired;  and  from  that  time  to  the  fall  of 
Venice  there  was  probably  no  Doge  who  did  not  in 
some  slight  deg^ree  embellish  or  alter  the  fabric,  so  that 
few  parts  of  it  can  be  pronounced  boldly  to  be  of  any 
given  date.  Two  periods  of  interference  are,  however, 
notable  above  the  rest :  the  first,  that  in  which  the  Gothic 
school  had  superseded  the  Byzantine  towards  the  close 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  when  the  pinnacles,  upper 
archivolts,  and  window  traceries  were  added  to  the 
exterior,  and  the  great  screen  with  various  chapels  and 
tabernacle-work,  to  the  interior;  the  second,  when  the 
Renaissance  school  superseded  the  Gothic,  and  the 
pupils  of  Titian  and  Tintoret  substituted,  over  one  half 
of  the  church,  their  own  compositions  for  the  Greek 
mosaics  with  which  it  was  originally  decorated  ;  ^  hap- 
pily, though  with  no  good  will,  having  left  enough  to 
enable  us  to  imagine  and  lament  what  they  destroyed. 
Of  this  irreparable  loss  we  shall  have  more  to  say  here- 
after ;  meantime,  I  wish  only  to  fix  in  the  reader's  mind 
the  succession  of  periods  of  alterations  as  firmly  and 
simply  as  possible. 

We  have  seen  that  the  main  body  of  the  church  may 
be  broadly  stated  to  be  of  the  eleventh  century,  the 
Gothic  additions  of  the  fourteenth,  and  the  restored 
mosaics  of  the  seventeenth.  There  is  no  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  at  a  glance  the  Gothic  portions  from  the 

1  Signed  Bartolcmeus  Bozza,  1634,  1647,  1656,  etc.    [Ruskin.] 


154  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

Byzantine;  but  there  is  considerable  difficult}^  in  ascer- 
taining how  lonp;,  during  the  course  of  the  twelfth  and 
thirteenth  centuries,  additions  were  made  to  the  Byzan- 
tine church,  which  cannot  be  easily  distinguished  from 
the  work  of  the  eleventh  century,  being  purposely  exe- 
cuted in  the  same  manner.  Two  of  the  most  important 
pieces  of  evidence  on  this  point  are,  a  mosaic  in  the 
south  transept,  and  another  over  the  northern  door  of 
the  fa9ade;  the  first  representing  the  interior,  the 
second  the  exterior,  of  the  ancient  church. 

It  has  just  been  stated  that  the  existing  building  was 
consecrated  by  the  Doge  Vital  Falier.  A  peculiar  so- 
lemnity was  given  to  that  act  of  consecration,  in  the 
minds  of  the  Venetian  people,  by  what  appears  to  have 
been  one  of  the  best  arranged  and  most  successful  im- 
postures ever  attempted  by  the  clergy  of  the  Romish 
church.  The  body  of  St.  Mark  had,  without  doubt, 
perished  in  the  conflagration  of  976 ;  but  the  revenues 
of  the  church  depended  too  much  upon  the  devotion 
excited  by  these  relics  to  permit  the  confession  of  their 
loss.  The  following  is  the  account  given  by  Corner, 
and  believed  to  this  day  by  the  Venetians,  of  the  pre- 
tended miracle  by  which  it  was  concealed. 

"  After  the  repairs  undertaken  by  the  Doge  Orseolo, 
the  place  in  which  the  body  of  the  holy  Evangelist  rested 
had  been  altogether  forgotten ;  so  that  the  Doge  Vital 
Falier  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  place  of  the  venerable 
deposit.  This  w^as  no  light  affliction,  not  only  to  the 
pious  Doge,  but  to  afl  the  citizens  and  people ;  so  that 
at  last,  moved  by  confidence  in  the  Divine  mercy,  they 
determined  to  implore,  with  prayer  and  fasting,  the 
manifestation  of  so  great  a  treasure,  which  did  not  now 
depend  upon  any  human  effort.  A  general  fast  being 
therefore  proclaimed,   and   a  solemn  procession  ap- 


ST.    MARK'S  155 

pointed  for  the  25th  day  of  June,  while  the  people 
assembled  in  the  church  interceded  with  God  in  fervent 
prayers  for  the  desired  boon,  they  beheld,  with  as  much 
amazement  as  joy,  a  slight  shaking  in  the  marbles  of  a 
pillar  (near  the  place  where  the  altar  of  the  Cross  is 
now),  which,  presently  falling  to  the  earth,  exposed  to 
the  view  of  the  rejoicing  people  the  chest  of  bronze  in 
v/hich  the  body  of  the  Evangelist  was  laid." 

Of  the  main  facts  of  this  tale  there  is  no  doubt.  They 
were  embellished  afterwards,  as  usual,  by  many  fanci- 
ful traditions ;  as,  for  instance,  that,  when  the  sarcoph- 
agus was  discovered,  St.  Mark  extended  his  hand  out 
of  it,  with  a  gold  ring  on  one  of  the  fingers,  which  he 
permitted  a  noble  of  the  Dolfin  family  to  remove ;  and 
a  quaint  and  delightful  story  was  further  invented  of  this 
ring,  which  I  shall  not  repeat  here,  as  it  is  now  as  well 
know^n  as  any  tale  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  But  the  fast 
and  the  discovery  of  the  coflBn,  by  whatever  means 
effected,  are  facts ;  and  they  are  recorded  in  one  of  the 
best-preserved  mosaics  of  the  north  ^  transept,  exe- 
cuted very  certainly  not  long  after  the  event  had  taken 
place,  closely  resembling  in  its  treatment  that  of  the 
Bayeux  tapestry,  and  showing,  in  a  conventional  man- 
ner, the  interior  of  the  church,  as  it  then  was,  filled  by 
the  people,  first  in  prayer,  then  in  thanksgiving,  the 
pillar  standing  open  before  them,  and  the  Doge,  in  the 
midst  of  them,  distinguished  by  his  crimson  bonnet 
embroidered  with  gold,  but  more  unmistakably  by  the 
inscription  "Dux"  over  his  head,  as  uniformly  is  the 
case  in  the  Bayeux  tapestry,  and  most  other  pictorial 
works  of  the  period.  The  church  is,  of  course,  rudely 
represented,  and  the  two  upper  stories  of  it  reduced  to 

^  An  obvious  slip.  The  mosaic  is  on  the  west  wall  of  the  south 
transept.   [Cook  and  Wedderburn.] 


156  THE  STONES   OF   VENICE 

a  small  scale  in  order  to  form  a  background  to  the  fig- 
ures ;  one  of  those  bold  pieces  of  picture  history  which 
we  in  our  pride  of  perspective,  and  a  thousand  things 
besides,  never  dare  attempt.  We  should  have  put  in  a 
column  or  two,  of  the  real  or  perspective  size,  and  sub- 
dued it  into  a  vague  background :  the  old  workman 
crushed  the  church  together  that  he  might  get  it  all 
in,  up  to  the  cupolas;  and  has,  therefore,  left  us  some 
useful  notes  of  its  ancient  form,  though  any  one  who 
is  familiar  with  the  method  of  drawing  employed  at 
the  period  will  not  push  the  evidence  too  far.  The  two 
pulpits  are  there,  however,  as  they  are  at  this  day,  and 
the  fringe  of  mosaic  flowerwork  which  then  encom- 
passed the  whole  church,  but  which  modern  restorers 
have  destroyed,  all  but  one  fragment  still  left  in  the 
south  aisle.  There  is  no  attempt  to  represent  the  other 
mosaics  on  the  roof,  the  scale  being  too  small  to  admit 
of  their  being  represented  wnth  any  success ;  but  some 
at  least  of  those  mosaics  had  been  executed  at  that 
period,  and  their  absence  in  the  representation  of  the 
entire  church  is  especially  to  be  observed,  in  order  to 
show  that  we  must  not  trust  to  any  negative  evidence 
in  such  works.  M,  Lazari  has  rashly  concluded  that 
the  central  archivolt  of  St.  Mark's  must  be  posterior  to 
the  year  1205,  because  it  does  not  appear  in  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  exterior  of  the  church  over  the  northern 
door ;  ^  but  he  justly  observes  that  this  mosaic  (which 
is  the  other  piece  of  evidence  we  possess  respecting 
the  ancient  form  of  the  building)  cannot  itself  be  ear- 
lier than  1205,  since  it  represents  the  bronze  horses 
which  were  brought  from  Constantinople  in  that  year. 
And  this  one  fact  renders  it  very  difficult  to  speak  with 
confidence  respecting  the  date  of  any  part  of  the  exte- 
^  Guida  di  Venezia,  p.  6.    [Ruskin.] 


ST.   MARK'S  157 

rior  of  St.  Mark's ;  for  we  have  above  seen  that  it  was 
consecrated  in  the  eleventh  century,  and  yet  here  is  one 
of  its  most  important  exterior  decorations  assuredly 
retouched,  if  not  entirely  added,  in  the  thirteenth,  al- 
though its  style  would  have  led  us  to  suppose  it  had  been 
an  original  part  of  the  fabric.  However,  for  all  our  pur- 
poses, it  will  be  enough  for  the  reader  to  remember  that 
the  earliest  parts  of  the  building  belong  to  the  eleventh, 
twelfth,  and  first  part  of  the  thirteenth  century ;  the 
Gothic  portions  to  the  fourteenth;  some  of  the  altars 
and  embellishments  to  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth ;  and 
the  modern  portion  of  the  mosaics  to  the  seventeenth. 

This,  however,  I  only  wish  him  to  recollect  in  order 
that  I  may  speak  generally  of  the  Byzantine  architec- 
ture of  St.  Mark's,  without  leading  him  to  suppose  the 
whole  church  to  have  been  built  and  decorated  by 
Greek  artists.  Its  later  portions,  with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  the  seventeenth-century  mosaics,  have  been  so 
dexterously  accommodated  to  the  original  fabric  that 
the  general  effect  is  still  that  of  a  Byzantine  building; 
and  I  shall  not,  except  when  it  is  absolutely  necessary, 
direct  attention  to  the  discordant  points,  or  weary  the 
reader  with  anatomical  criticism.  Whatever  in  St. 
Mark's  arrests  the  eye,  or  affects  the  feelings,  is  either 
Byzantine,  or  has  been  modified  by  Byzantine  influ- 
ence ;  and  our  inquiry  into  its  architectural  merits 
need  not  therefore  be  disturbed  by  the  anxieties  of  anti- 
quarianism,  or  arrested  by  the  obscurities  of  chrono- 
logy. 

And  now  I  wish  that  the  reader,  before  I  bring  him 
into  St.  Mark's  Place,  would  imagine  himself  for  a  little 
time  in  a  quiet  English  cathedral  town,  and  walk  with 
me  to  the  west  front  of  its  cathedral.  Let  us  go  together 
up  the  more  retired  street,  at  the  end  of  which  we  can 


ir>8  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

sec  the  pinnacles  of  one  of  tlic  towers,  and  then  through 
the  low  grey  gateway,  with  its  battlcmented  top  and 
small   latticed  window  in   the  centre,  into  the   inner 
private-looking  road  or  close,  w^here  nothing  goes  in 
but  the  carts  of  the  tradesmen  who  supply  the  bishop 
and  the  chapter,  and  where  there  are  little  shaven  grass- 
plots,  fenced   in   by  neat  rails,   before  old-fashioned 
groups  of  somew^hat  diminutive  and  excessively  trim 
houses,  with  little  oriel  and  bay  windows  jutting  out 
here  and  there,  and  deep  w^ooden  cornices  and  eaves 
painted  cream  colour  and  w^hite,  and  small  porches 
to  their  doors  in  the  shape  of  cockle-shells,  or  little, 
crooked,  thick,  indescribable  w^ooden  gables  warped 
a  little  on  one  side;  and  so  forw^ard  till  we  come  to 
larger  houses,  also  old-fashioned,  but  of  red  brick,  and 
with  gardens  behind  them,  and  fruit  w  alls,  which  show 
here  and  there,  among  the  nectarines,  the  vestiges  of 
an  old  cloister  arch  or  shaft,  and  looking  in  front  on 
the  cathedral  square  itself,  laid  out  in  rigid  divisions 
of  smooth  grass  and  gravel  walk,  yet  not  uncheerful, 
especially  on  the   sunny  side,  where  the  canons'  chil- 
dren are  walking  with  their  nursery-maids.    And  so, 
taking  care  not  to  tread  on  the  grass,  we  will  go  along 
the  straight  walk  to  the  w^est  front,  and  there  stand 
for  a  time,  looking  up  at  its  deep-pointed  porches  and 
the  dark  places  betw^een  their  pillars  w^here  there  w^ere 
statues  once,  and  w  here  the  fragments,  here  and  there, 
of  a  stately  figure  are  still  left,  which  has  in  it  the  like 
ness  of  a  king,  perhaps  indeed  a  king  on  earth,  per 
haps  a  saintly  king  long  ago  in  heaven ;  and  so  highel 
and  higher  up  to  the  great  mouldering  w^all  of  rugged 
sculpture  and  confused  arcades,  shattered,  and  grey, 
and  grisly  with  heads  of  dragons  and  mocking  fiends, 
w^orn  by  the  rain  and  swirling  winds  into  yet  unseem- 


ST.   MARK'S  159 

licr  shape,  and  coloured  on  their  stony  scales  by  the 
deep  russet-orange  lichen,  melancholy  gold ;  and  so, 
hijrher  still,  to  the  bleak  towers,  so  far  above  that  the 
eye  lose?  itself  among  the  bosses  of  their  traceries, 
though  they  are  rude  and  strong,  and  only  sees  like  a 
drift  of  eddying  black  points,  now  closing,  now  scatter- 
ing, and  now  settling  suddenly  into  invisible  places 
among  the  bosses  and  flowers,  the  crowd  of  restless 
birds  that  fill  the  whole  square  with  that  strange  clan- 
gour of  theirs,  so  harsh  and  yet  so  soothing,  like  the 
cries  of  birds  on  a  solitary  coast  between  the  cliffs 
and  sea. 

Think  for  a  little  w^hile  of  that  scene,  and  the  mean- 
ing of  all  its  small  formalisms,  mixed  with  its  serene 
sublimity.  Estimate  its  secluded,  continuous,  drowsy 
felicities,  and  its  evidence  of  the  sense  and  steady 
performance  of  such  kind  of  duties  as  can  be  regulated 
by  the  cathedral  clock ;  and  weigh  the  influence  of  those 
dark  towers  on  all  who  have  passed  through  the  lonely 
square  at  their  feet  for  centuries,  and  on  all  who  have 
seen  them  rising  far  away  over  the  wooded  plain,  or 
catching  on  their  square  masses  the  last  rays  of  the 
sunset,  when  the  city  at  their  feet  was  indicated  only 
by  the  mist  at  the  bend  of  the  river.  And  then  let  us 
quickly  recollect  that  we  are  in  Venice,  and  land  at 
the  extremity  of  the  Calla  Lunga  San  Moise,  which 
may  be  considered  as  there  answering  to  the  secluded 
street  that  led  us  to  our  English  cathedral  gateway. 

We  find  ourselves  in  a  paved  alley,  some  seven  feet 
wide  where  it  is  widest,  full  of  people,  and  resonant 
with  cries  of  itinerant  salesmen,  —  a  shriek  in  their 
beginning,  and  dying  away  into  a  kind  of  brazen  ring- 
ing, all  the  worse  for  its  confinement  between  the  high 
houses  of  the  passage  along  which  we  have  to  make  our 


160  THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

way.  Over-head,  an  inextricable  confusion  of  rugged 
shutters,  and  iron  balconies  and  chimney  flues,  pushed 
out  on  brackets  to  save  room,  and  arched  windows 
with  projecting  sills  of  Istrian  stone,  and  gleams  of 
green  leaves  here  and  there  v/here  a  fig-tree  branch 
escapes  over  a  lower  wall  from  some  inner  cortile,  lead- 
ing the  eye  up  to  the  narrow  stream  of  blue  sky  high 
over  all.  On  each  side,  a  row  of  shops,  as  densely  set  as 
may  be,  occupying,  in  fact,  intervals  between  the  square 
stone  shafts,  about  eight  feet  high,  which  carry  the  first 
floors :  intervals  of  which  one  is  narrow  and  serves  as  a 
door ;  the  other  is,  in  the  more  respectable  shops,  wain- 
scotted  to  the  height  of  the  counter  and  glazed  above, 
but  in  those  of  the  poorer  tradesmen  left  open  to  the 
ground,  and  the  wares  laid  on  benches  and  tables  in  the 
open  air,  the  light  in  all  cases  entering  at  the  front  only, 
and  fading  away  in  a  few  feet  from  the  threshold  into  a 
gloom  which  the  eye  from  without  cannot  penetrate, 
but  which  is  generally  broken  by  a  ray  or  two  from  a 
feeble  lamp  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  suspended  before  a 
print  of  the  Virgin.  The  less  pious  shopkeeper  some- 
times leaves  his  lamp  unlighted,  and  is  contented  with 
a  penny  print ;  the  more  religious  one  has  his  print  col- 
oured and  set  in  a  little  shrine  with  a  gilded  or  figured 
fringe,  with  perhaps  a  faded  flower  or  two  on  each  side, 
and  his  lamp  burning  brilliantly.  Here,  at  the  fruiter- 
er's, where  the  dark-green  water-melons  are  heaped 
upon  the  counter  like  cannon  balls,  the  Madonna  has  a 
tabernacle  of  fresh  laurel  leaves ;  but  the  pewterer  next 
door  has  let  his  lamp  out,  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen 
in  his  shop  but  the  dull  gleam  of  the  studded  patterns 
on  the  copper  pans,  hanging  from  his  roof  in  the  dark- 
ness. Next  comes  a  "  Vendita  Frittole  e  Liquori,"  * 
*  Fritters  and  liquors  for  sale. 


ST.   MARK'S  161 

where  the  Virgin,  enthroned  in  a  very  humble  manner 
beside  a  tallow  candle  on  a  back  shelf,  presides  over 
certain  ambrosial  morsels  of  a  nature  too  ambiguous  to 
be  defined  or  enumerated.  But  a  few  steps  farther  on, 
at  the  regular  wine-shop  of  the  calle,  where  we  are  of- 
ferred  "Vino  Nostrani  a  Soldi  28-32,"  the  Madonna  is 
in  great  glory,  enthroned  above  ten  or  a  dozen  large  red 
casks  of  three-year-old  vintage,  and  flanked  by  goodly 
ranks  of  bottles  of  Maraschino,  and  two  crimson  lamps ; 
and  for  the  evening,  when  the  gondoliers  will  come  to 
drink  out,  under  her  auspices,  the  money  they  have 
gained  during  the  day,  she  will  have  a  whole  chandelier. 
A  yard  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the  hostelry  of  the 
Black  Eagle,  and,  glancing  as  we  pass  through  the 
square  door  of  marble,  deeply  moulded,  in  the  outer 
wall,  we  see  the  shadows  of  its  pergola  of  vines  resting 
on  an  ancient  well,  with  a  pointed  shield  carved  on  its 
side ;  and  so  presently  emerge  on  the  bridge  and  Campo 
San  Moise,  whence  to  the  entrance  into  St.  Mark's 
Place,  called  the  Bocca  di  Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square), 
the  Venetian  character  is  nearly  destroyed,  first  by  the 
frightful  fa9ade  of  San  Moise,  which  we  will  pause  at 
another  time  to  examine,  and  then  by  the  modernizing 
of  the  shops  as  they  near  the  piazza,  and  the  mingling 
with  the  lower  Venetian  populace  of  lounging  groups 
of  English  and  Austrians.  We  will  push  fast  through 
them  into  the  shadow  of  the  pillars  at  the  end  of  the 
*'  Bocca  di  Piazza,"  and  then  we  forget  them  all ;  for 
between  those  pillars  there  opens  a  great  light,  and,  in 
the  midst  of  it,  as  we  advance  slowly,  the  vast  tower  of 
St.  Mark  seems  to  lift  itself  visibly  forth  from  the  level 
field  of  chequered  stones;  and,  on  each  side,  the  count- 
less arches  prolong  themselves  into  ranged  symmetry, 
as  if  the  rugged  and  irregular  houses  that  pressed  to- 


162  THE   STONES   OF  VENICE 

gellicr  above  us  in  the  dark  alley  had  been  struck  back 
into  sudden  obedience  and  lovely  order,  and  all  their 
rude  casements  and  broken  walls  had  been  transformed 
i-nto  arches  charged  with  goodly  sculpture,  and  fluted 
shafts  of  delicate  stone. 

And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for  beyond  those  troops 
of  ordered  arches  there  rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth, 
and  all  the  great  square  seems  to  have  opened  from  it  in 
a  kind  of  awe,  that  we  may  see  it  far  away ;  —  a  multi- 
tude of  pillars  and  white  domes,  clustered  intoa'long 
low  pyramid  of  coloured  light ;  a  treasure-heap,  it  seems, 
partly  of  gold,  and  partly  of  opal  and  mother-of-pearl, 
hollowed  beneath  into  five  great  vaulted  porches,  ceiled 
with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset  with  sculpture  of  alabaster, 
clear  as  amber  and  delicate  as  ivory,  —  sculpture  fan- 
tastic and  involved,  of  palm  leaves  and  lilies,  and 
grapes  and  pomegranates,  and  birds  clinging  and  flut- 
tering among  the  branches,  all  twined  together  into  an 
endless  network  of  buds  and  plumes ;  and,  in  the  midst 
of  it,  the  solemn  forms  of  angels,  sceptred,  and  robed  to 
the  feet,  and  leaning  to  each  other  across  the  gates,  their 
figures  indistinct  among  the  gleaming  of  the  golden 
ground  through  the  leaves  beside  them,  interrupted  and 
dim,  like  the  morning  light  as  it  faded  back  among  the 
branches  of  Eden,  when  first  its  gates  were  angel- 
guarded  long  ago.  And  round  the  walls  of  the  porches 
there  are  sePpTnars  of  variegated  stones,  jasper  and 
porphyry,  and  deep-green  serpentine  spotted  with 
flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles,  that  half  refuse  and  half 
yield  to  the  sunshine,  Cleopatra-like,  "  their  bluest  veins 
to  kiss"  ^  —  the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them, 
revealing  line  after  line  of  azure  undulation,  as  a  reced- 
ing tide  leaves  the  waved  sand ;  their  capitals  rich  with 
^  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  2.  5.  29. 


ST.    mark's  :    CENTRAL   ARCH    OF    FACADE 


ST.   MARK'S  163 

interwoven  tracery,  rooted  knots  of  herbage,  and  drift- 
ing leaves  of  acanthus  and  vine,  and  mystical  signs,  all 
beginning  and  ending  in  the  Cross ;  and  above  them,  in 
the  broad  archivolts,  a  continuous  chain  of  language 
and  of  life  —  angels,  and  the  signs  of  heaven,  and  the 
labours  of  men,  each  in  its  appointed  season  upon  the 
earth;  and  above  these,  another  range  of  glittering 
pinnacles,  mixed  with  white  arches  edged  with  scarlet 
flowers,  —  a  confusion  of  delight,  amidst  which  the 
breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen  blazing  in  their 
breadth  of  golden  strength,  and  the  St.  Mark's  Lion, 
lifted  on  a  blue  field  covered  with  stars,  until  at  last,  as 
if  in  ecstasy,  the  crests  of  the  arches  break  into  a  mar- 
ble foam,  and  toss  themselves  far  into  the  blue  sky  in 
flashes  and  wreaths  of  sculptured  spray,  as  if  the 
breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had  been  frost-bound  before 
they  fell,  and  the  sea-nymphs  had  inlaid  them  v»^ith 
coral  and  ameth3st. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England  and  this^ 
what  an  interva) !  There  is  a  type  of  it  in  the  very  birds 
that  haunt  them;  for,  instead  of  the  restless  crowd, 
hoarse-voiced  and  sable-winged,  drifting  on  the  bleak 
upper  air,  the  St.  Mark's  porches  are  full  of  doves,  that 
nestle  among  the  marble  foliage,  and  mingle  the  soft 
iridescence  of  their  living  plumes,  changing  at  every 
motion,  with  the  tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that  have 
stood  unchanged  for  seven  hundred  years. 

And  what  effect  has  this  splendour  on  those  who  pass 
beneath  it  ?  You  may  walk  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  to 
and  fro,  before  the  gateway  of  St.  Mark's,  and  you  will 
not  see  an  eye  lifted  to  it,  nor  a  countenance  brightened 
by  it.  Priest  and  layman,  soldier  and  civilian,  rich  and 
poor,  pass  by  it  alike  regardlessly.  Up  to  the  very  re- 
cesses of  the  porches,  the  meanest  tradesmen  of  the  city 


1G4  THE    STONES   OF  VENICE 

push  their  counters ;  nay,  the  foundations  of  its  pillars 
are  themselves  the  seats  —  not  "  of  them  that  sell 
doves"  ^  for  sacrifice,  but  of  the  vendors  of  toys  and 
caricatures.  Round  the  whole  square  in  front  of  the 
church  there  is  almost  a  continuous  line  of  cafes,  where 
the  idle  Venetians  of  the  middle  classes  lounge,  and  read 
empty  journals ;  in  its  centre  the  Austrian  bands  play 
during  the  time  of  vespers,  their  martial  music  jarring 
with  the  organ  notes,  —  the  march  drowning  the  mise- 
rere, and  the  sullen  crowd  thickening  round  them,  — 
a  crowd,  which,  if  it  had  its  will,  would  stiletto  every 
soldier  that  pipes  to  it.  And  in  the  recesses  of  the 
porches,  all  day  long,  knots  of  men  of  the  lowest  classes, 
unemployed  and  listless,  lie  basking  in  the  sun  like 
lizards  ;  and  unregarded  children,  —  every  heavy  glance 
of  their  young  eyes  full  of  desperation  and  stony 
depravity,  and  their  throats  hoarse  with  cursing, — ■' 
gamble,  and  fight,,  and  snarl,  and  sleep,  hour  after 
hour,  clashing  their  bruised  centesimi  upon  the  marble 
ledges  of  the  church  porch.  And  the  images  of  Christ 
and  His  angels  look  down  upon  it  continually. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE 

Volume  II,  Chapter  6 

I  BELIEVE,  then,  that  the  characteristic  or  moral  ele- 
ments of  Gothic  are  the  following,  placed  in  the  order  of 
their  importance : 

1.  Savageness.  4.  Grotesqueness. 

2.  Changefulness.  5.  Rigidity. 

3.  Naturalism  6.  Redundance. 

*  Matthew  xxi,  12  and  John  ii,  16. 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  165 

These  characters  are  here  expressed  as  belonging  to 
the  building ;  as  belonging  to  the  builder,  they  would  be 
expressed  thus: — 1.  Savageness,  or  Rudeness.  2. 
Love  of  Change.  3.  Love  of  Nature.  4.  Disturbed 
Imagination.  5.  Obstinacy.  6.  Generosity.  And  I 
repeat,  that  the  withdrawal  of  any  one,  or  any  two,  wil) 
not  at  once  destroy  the  Gothic  character  of  a  building, 
but  the  removal  of  a  majority  of  them  will.  I  shall  pro 
ceed  to  examine  them  in  their  order. 

1.  Savageness.  I  am  not  sure  when  the  word 
'*  Gothic  "  was  first  generically  applied  to  the  architec- 
ture of  the  North ;  but  I  presume  that,  whatever  the 
date  of  its  original  usage,  it  was  intended  to  imply  re- 
proach, and  express  the  barbaric  character  of  the  na^ 
tions  among  whom  that  architecture  arose.  It  never 
implied  that  they  were  literally  of  Gothic  lineage,  far 
less  that  their  architecture  had  been  originally  invented 
by  the  Goths  themselves;  but  it  did  imply  that  they 
and  their  buildings  together  exhibited  a  degree  of  stern- 
ness and  rudeness,  which,  in  contradistinction  to  the 
character  of  Southern  and  Eastern  nations,  appeared 
like  a  perpetual  reflection  of  the  contrast  between  the 
Goth  and  the  Roman  in  their  first  encounter.  And 
when  that  fallen  Roman,  in  the  utmost  impotence  of 
his  luxury,  and  insolence  of  his  guilt,  became  the  model 
for  the  imitation  of  civilized  Europe,  at  the  close  of  the 
so-called  Dark  Ages,  the  word  Gothic  became  a  term 
of  unmitigated  contempt,  not  unmixed  with  aversion. 
From  that  contempt,  by  the  exertion  of  the  antiquaries 
and  architects  of  this  century,  Gothic  architecture  has 
been  sufficiently  vindicated ;  and  perhaps  some  among 
us,  in  our  admiration  of  the  magnificent  science  of  its 
structure,  and  sacredness  of  its  expression,  might  de- 
sire that  the  term  of  ancient  reproach  should  be  with- 


160  THE  STONES   OF   VENICE 

drawn,  and  some  other,  of  more  apparent  honourable- 
ness,  adopted  in  its  place.  There  is  no  chance,  as  there 
is  no  need,  of  such  a  substitution.  As  far  as  the  epithet 
was  used  scornfully,  it  was  used  falsely ;  but  there  is  no 
reproach  in  the  word,  rightly  understood  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, there  is  a  profound  truth,  which  the  instinct  of 
mankind  almost  unconsciously  recognizes.  It  is  true, 
greatly  and  deeply  true,  that  the  architecture  of  the 
North  is  rude  and  wild  ;  but  it  is  not  true,  that,  for  this 
reason,  we  are  to  condemn  it,  or  despise.  Far  other- 
wise :  I  believe  it  is  in  this  very  character  that  it  deserves 
our  profoundest  reverence. 

The  charts  of  the  world  which  have  been  drawn  up 
by  modern  science  have  thrown  into  a  narrow  space 
the  expression  of  a  vast  amount  of  knowledge,  but  I 
have  never  yet  seen  any  one  pictorial  enough  to  enable 
the  spectator  to  imagine  the  kind  of  contrast  in  physical 
character  w  hich  exists  between  Northern  and  Southern 
countries.  We  know  the  differences  in  detail,  but  we 
have  not  that  broad  glance  and  grasp  which  would  en- 
able us  to  feel  them  in  their  fulness.  We  know  that 
gentians  grow  on  the  Alps,  and  olives  on  the  Apen- 
nines; but  we  do  not  enough  conceive  for  ourselves 
that  variegated  mosaic  of  the  world's  surface  which  a 
bird  sees  in  its  migration,  that  difference  between  the 
district  of  the  gentian  and  of  the  olive  which  the  stork 
and  the  swallovv'  see  far  off,  as  they  lean  upon  the  sirocco 
wind.  Let  us,  for  a  moment,  try  to  raise  ourselves  even 
above  the  level  of  their  flight,  and  imagine  the  Medi- 
terranean lying  beneath  us  like  an  irregular  lake,  and 
all  its  ancient  promontories  sleeping  in  the  sun :  here 
and  there  an  angry  spot  of  thunder,  a  grey  stain  of 
storm,  moving  upon  the  burning  field;  and  here  and 
there  a  fixed  wreath  of  white  volcano  smoke,  sur- 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  167 

rounded  by  its  circle  of  ashes ;  but  for  the  most  part  a 
great  peacefulness  of  hght,  Syria  and  Greece,  Italy  and 
Spain,  laid  like  pieces  of  a  golden  pavement  into  the 
sea-blue,  chased,  as  we  stoop  nearer  to  them,  with 
bossy  beaten  work  of  mountain  chains,  and  glowing 
softly  with  terraced  gardens,  !and  flowers  heavy  with 
frankincense,  mixed  among  masses  of  laurel,  and 
orange,  and  plumy  palm,  that  abate  with  their  grey- 
green  shadows  the  burning  of  the  marble  rocks,  and  of 
the  ledges  of  porphyry  sloping  under  lucent  sand.  Then 
let  us  pass  farther  towards  the  north,  until  we  see  the 
orient  colours  change  gradually  into  a  vast  belt  of  rainy 
green,  where  the  pastures  of  Switzerland,  and  poplar 
valleys  of  France,  and  dark  forests  of  the  Danube  and 
Carpathians  stretch  from  the  mouths  of  the  Loire  to 
those  of  the  Volga,  seen  through  clefts  in  grey  swirls  of 
rain-cloud  and  flaky  veils  of  the  mist  of  the  brooks, 
spreading  low  along  the  pasture  lands:  and  then,  far- 
ther north  still,  to  see  the  earth  heave  into  mighty 
masses  of  leaden  rock  and  heathy  moor,  bordering  with 
a  broad  waste  of  gloomy  purple  that  belt  of  field  and 
wood,  and  splintering  into  irregular  and  grisly  islands 
amidst  the  northern  seas,  beaten  by  storm,  and  chilled 
by  ice-drift,  and  tormented  by  furious  pulses  of  con' 
tending  tide,  until  the  roots  of  the  last  forests  fail  from 
among  the  hill  ravines,  and  the  hunger  of  the  north 
wind  bites  their  peaks  into  barrenness;  and,  at  last, 
the  wall  of  ice,  durable  like  iron,  sets,  deathlike,  its  white 
teeth  against  us  out  of  the  polar  twilight.  And,  having 
once  traversed  in  thought  this  gradation  of  the  zoned 
iris  of  the  earth  in  all  its  material  vastness,  let  us  go 
down  nearer  to  it,  and  watch  the  parallel  change  in  the 
belt  of  animal  life ;  the  multitudes  of  swift  and  brilliant 
creatures  that  glance  in  the  air  and  sea,  or  tread  the 


168  THE    STONES  OF  VENICE 

sands  of  the  southern  zone ;  striped  zebras  and  spotted 
leopards,  ghstening  serpents,  and  birds  arrayed  in 
purple  and  scarlet.  Let  us  contrast  their  delicacy  and 
brilliancy  of  colour,  and  swiftness  of  motion,  with  the 
frost-cranaped  strength,  and  shaggy  covering,  and 
dusky  plumage  of  the  northern  tribes;  contrast  the 
Arabian  horse  with  the  Shetland,  the  tiger  and  leopard 
with  the  wolf  and  bear,  the  antelope  with  the  elk,  the 
bird  of  paradise  with  the  osprey:  and  then,  submis- 
sively acknowledging  the  great  laws  by  which  the  earth 
and  all  that  it  bears  are  ruled  throughout  their  being, 
let  us  not  condemn,  but  rejoice  in  the  expression  by 
man  of  his  own  rest  in  the  statutes  of  the  lands  that 
gave  him  birth.  Let  us  watch  him  with  reverence  as  he 
sets  side  by  side  the  burning  gems,  and  smooths  with 
soft  sculpture  the  jasper  pillars,  that  are  to  reflect  a 
ceaseless  sunshine,  and  rise  into  a  cloudless  sky :  but 
not  with  less  reverence  let  us  stand  by  him,  when,  with 
rough  strength  and  hurried  stroke,  he  smites  an  un- 
couth animation  out  of  the  rocks  which  he  has  torn 
from  among  the  moss  of  the  moorland,  and  heaves  into 
the  darkened  air  the  pile  of  iron  buttress  and  rugged 
wall,  instinct  with  work  of  an  imagination  as  wild  and 
wayward  as  the  northern  sea;  creations  of  ungainly 
shape  and  rigid  limb,  but  full  of  w^olfish  life ;  fierce  as 
the  winds  that  beat,  and  changeful  as  the  clouds  that 
shade  them. 

There  is,  I  repeat,  no  degradation,  no  reproach  in 
this,  but  all  dignity  and  honourableness:  and  we  should 
err  grievously  in  refusing  either  to  recognize  as  an 
essential  character  of  the  existing  architecture  of  the 
North,  or  to  admit  as  a  desirable  character  in  that 
which  it  yet  may  be,  this  wildness  of  thought,  and 
roughness  of  work ;  this  look  of  mountain  brotherhood 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE  169 

between  the  cathedral  and  the  Alp ;  this  magnificence 
of  sturdy  power,  put  forth  only  the  more  energetically 
because  the  fine  finger-touch  was  chilled  away  by  the 
frosty  wind,  and  the  eye  dimmed  by  the  moor-mist,  or 
blinded  by  the  hail ;  this  outspeaking  of  the  strong  spirit 
of  men  who  may  not  gather  redundant  fruitage  from 
the  earth,  nor  bask  in  dreamy  benignity  of  sunshine, 
but  must  break  the  rock  for  bread,  and  cleave  the  forest 
for  fire,  and  show,  even  in  what  they  did  for  their  de- 
light, some  of  the  hard  habits  of  the  arm  and  heart  that 
grew  on  them  as  they  swung  the  axe  or  pressed  the 
plough. 

If,  however,  the  savageness  of  Gothic  architecture, 
merely  as  an  expression  of  its  origin  among  Northern 
nations,  may  be  considered,  in  some  sort,  a  noble  char- 
acter, it  possesses  a  higher  nobility  still,  when  con- 
sidered as  an  index,  not  of  climate,  but  of  religious 
principle. 

In  the  13th  and  14th  paragraphs  of  Chapter  XXI.  of 
the  first  volume  of  this  work,  it  was  noticed  that  the 
systems  of  architectural  ornament,  properly  so  called, 
might  be  divided  into  three: — 1.  Servile  ornament, 
in  which  the  execution  or  power  of  the  inferior  work- 
man is  entirely  subjected  to  the  intellect  of  the  higher ; 

—  ^.  Constitutional  ornament,  in  which  the  executive 
inferior  power  is,  to  a  certain  point,  emancipated  and 
independent,  having  a  will  of  its  own,  yet  confessing  its 
inferiority  and  rendering  obedience  to  higher  powers ; 

—  and  3.  Revolutionary  ornament,  in  which  no  ex- 
ecutive inferiority  is  admitted  at  all.  I  must  here  ex- 
plain the  nature  of  these  divisions  at  somewhat  greater 
j,ength. 

Of  Servile  ornament,  the  principal  schools  are  the 
Greek,  Ninevite,  and  Egyptian;  but  their  servility  is 


170  THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

of  (lifTcrent  kinds.  The  Greek  master-workman  was 
far  advanced  in  knowkxlge  and  power  above  the  As- 
syrian or  Egyptian.  Neither  he  nor  those  for  whom  he 
worked  coiikl  endure  the  appearance  of  imperfection 
in  anything;  and,  therefore,  what  ornament  he  ap- 
pointed to  be  done  by  those  beneath  him  was  com- 
posed of  mere  geometrical  forms,  —  balls,  ridges,  and 
perfectly  symmetrical  foliage,  —  which  could  be  ex- 
ecuted with  absolute  precision  by  line  and  rule,  and 
were  as  perfect  in  their  way,  when  completed,  as  his 
own  figure  sculpture.  The  Assyrian  and  Egyptian,  on 
the  contrary,  less  cognizant  of  accurate  form  in  any- 
thing, were  content  to  allow  their  figure  sculpture  to 
be  executed  by  inferior  workmen,  but  lowered  the 
method  of  its  treatment  to  a  standard  w^hich  every 
workman  could  reach,  and  then  trained  him  by  dis- 
cipline so  rigid,  that  there  was  no  chance  of  his  falling 
beneath  the  standard  appointed.  The  Greek  gave  to 
the  lower  workman  no  subject  which  he  could  not  per- 
fectly execute.  The  Assyrian  gave  him  subjects  which 
he  could  only  execute  imperfectly,  but  fixed  a  legal 
standard  for  his  imperfection.  The  workman  was,  in 
both  systems,  a  slave. ^ 

But  in  the  mediaeval,  or  especially  Christian,  system 
of  ornament,  this  slavery  is  done  away  with  altogether ; 
Christianity  having  recognized,  in  small  things  as  well 
as  great,  the  individual  value  of  every  soul.   But  it  not 

^  The  third  kind  of  ornament,  the  Renaissance,  is  that  in  which 
the  inferior  detail  becomes  principal,  the  executor  of  every  minor 
portion  beint^  required  to  exhibit  skill  and  possess  knowledge  as  o;real 
as  that  which  is  possessed  by  the  master  of  the  design ;  and  in  the 
endeavour  to  endow  him  with  this  skill  and  knowledge,  his  own 
original  power  is  overwhelmed,  and  the  whole  building  becomes  a 
wearisome  exhibition  of  well-educated  imbecility.  We  must  fully 
inquire  into  the  nature  of  this  form  of  error,  when  we  arrive  at  the 
examination  of  the  Renaissance  schools.   [Ruskin.] 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE  171 

only  recognizes  its  value;  it  confesses  its  imperfection, 
in  only  bestowing  dignity  upon  the  acknowledgment 
of  unwbrthiness.  That  admission  of  lost  power  and 
fallen  nature,  which  the  Greek  or  Ninevite  felt  to  be 
intensely  painful,  and,  as  far  as  might  be,  altogether 
refused,  the  Christian  makes  daily  and  hourly  con- 
templating the  fact  of  it  without  fear,  as  tending,  in  the 
end,  to  God's  greater  glory.  Therefore,  to  every  spirit 
which  Christianity  summons  to  her  service,  her  ex- 
hortation is :  Do  what  you  can,  and  confess  frankly 
what  you  are  unable  to  do;  neither  let  your  effort  be 
shortened  for  fear  of  failure,  nor  your  confession  si- 
lenced for  fear  of  shame.  And  it  is,  perhaps,  the  prin- 
cipal admirableness  of  the  Gothic  schools  of  architec- 
ture, that  they  thus  receive  the  results  of  the  labour  of 
inferior  minds ;  and  out  of  fragments  full  of  imperfec- 
tion, and  betraying  that  imperfection  in  every  touch, 
indulgently  raise  up  a  stately  and  unaccusable  whole. 
But  the  modern  English  mind  has  this  rnuch  in  com- 
mon with  that  of  the  Greek,  that  it  intensely  desires, 
in  all  things,  the  utmost  completion  or  perfection  com- 
patible with  their  nature.  This  is  a  noble  character  in 
the  abstract,  but  becomes  ignoble  when  it  causes  us  to 
forget  the  relative  dignities  of  that  nature  itself,  and  to 
prefer  the  perfectness  of  the  lower  nature  to  the  imper> 
fection  of  the  higher;  not  considering  that  as,  judged 
by  such  a  rule,  all  the  brute  animals  would  be  prefer- 
able to  man,  because  more  perfect  in  their  functions 
and  kind,  and  yet  are  always  held  inferior  to  him,  so 
also  in  the  works  of  man,  those  which  are  more  perfect 
in  their  kind  are  always  inferior  to  those  which  are,  in 
their  nature,  liable  to  more  faults  and  shortcomings. 
For  the  liner  the  nature,  the  more  flaws  it  will  show 
through  the  clearness  of  it ;  and  it  is  a  law  of  this  uni- 


17^  THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

verse,  that  the  best  things  shall  be  seldomest  seen  in 
their  best  form.  The  wild  grass  grows  well  and  strongly, 
one  year  with  another;  but  the  wheat  is,  according  to 
the  greater  nobleness  of  its  nature,  liable  to  the  bitterer 
blii>ht.  And  therefore,  while  in  all  thinfjjs  that  we  see 
or  do,  we  are  to  desire  perfection,  and  strive  for  it,  we 
are  nevertheless  not  to  set  the  meaner  thing,  in  its  nar- 
row accomplishment,  above  the  nobler  thing,  in  its 
mighty  progress;  not  to  esteem  smooth  minuteness 
above  shattered  majesty ;  not  to  prefer  mean  victory  to 
honourable  defeat;  not  to  lower  the  level  of  our  aim, 
that  we  may  the  more  surely  enjoy  the  complacency  of 
success.  But,  above  all,  in  our  dealings  with  the  souls 
of  other  men,  we  are  to  take  care  how  we  check,  by 
severe  requirement  or  narrow  caution,  efforts  which 
might  otherw^ise  lead  to  a  noble  issue;  and,  still  more, 
how  we  withhold  our  admiration  from  great  excellen- 
cies, because  they  are  mingled  w^ith  rough  faults.  Now, 
in  the  make  and  nature  of  every  man,  how^ever  rude  or 
simple,  whom  we  employ  in  manual  labour,  there  are 
some  powders  for  better  things :  some  tardy  imagination, 
torpid  capacity  of  emotion,  tottering  steps  of  thought, 
there  are,  even  at  the  worst ;  and  in  most  cases  it  is  all 
our  own  fault  that  they  are  tardy  or  torpid.  But  they 
cannot  be  strengthened,  unless  we  are  content  to  take 
them  in  their  feebleness,  and  unless  we  prize  and  hon- 
our them  in  their  imperfection  above  the  best  and  most 
perfect  manual  skill.  And  this  is  what  we  have  to  do 
wnth  all  our  labourers ;  to  look  for  the  thoughtful  part  of 
them,  and  get  that  out  of  them,  whatever  we  lose  for  it, 
whatever  faults  and  errors  we  are  obliged  to  take  w^ith 
it.  For  the  best  that  is  in  them  cannot  manifest  itself,  but 
in  company  with  much  error.  Understand  this  clearly. 
You  can  teach  a  man  to  draw  a  straight  line,  and  to 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  173 

cut  one ;  to  strike  a  curved  line,  and  to  carve  it ;  and  to 
copy  and  carve  any  number  of  given  lines  or  forms, 
with  admirable  speed  and  perfect  precision;  and  you 
find  his  work  perfect  of  its  kind  :  but  if  you  ask  him  to 
think  about  any  of  those  forms,  to  consider  if  he  cannot 
find  any  better  in  his  own  head,  he  stops ;  his  execution 
becomes  hesitating ;  he  thinks,  and  ten  to  one  he  thinks 
wrong ;  ten  to  one  he  makes  a  mistake  in  the  first  touch 
he  gives  to  his  work  as  a  thinking  being.  But  you  have 
made  a  man  of  him  for  all  that.  He  was  only  a  machine 
before,  an  animated  tool. 

And  observe,  you  are  put  to  stern  choice  in  this  mat- 
ter. You  must  either  make  a  tool  of  the  creature,  or  a 
man  of  him.  You  cannot  make  both.  Men  were  not 
intended  to  work  with  the  accuracy  of  tools,  to  be  pre- 
cise and  perfect  in  all  their  actions.  If  you  will  have 
that  precision  out  of  them,  and  make  their  fingers  mea- 
sure degrees  like  cog-wheels,  and  their  arms  strike 
curves  like  compasses,  you  must  unhumanize  them. 
All  the  energy  of  their  spirits  must  be  given  to  make 
cogs  and  compasses  of  themselves.  All  their  attention 
and  strength  must  go  to  the  accomplishment  of  the 
mean  act.  The  eye  of  the  soul  must  be  bent  upon  the 
finger-point,  and  the  soul's  force  must  fill  all  the  invisi- 
ble nerves  that  guide  it,  ten  hours  a  day,  that  it  may 
not  err  from  its  steely  precision,  and  so  soul  and  sight 
be  worn  away,  and  the  whole  human  being  be  lost  at 
last  —  a  heap  of  sawdust,  so  far  as  its  intellectual  work 
in  this  world  is  concerned;  saved  only  by  its  Heart, 
which  cannot  go  into  the  form  of  cogs  and  compasses, 
but  expands,  after  the  ten  hours  are  over,  into  fireside 
humanity.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  will  make  a  man 
of  the  working  creature,  you  cannot  make  a  tool.  Let 
him  but  begin  to  imagine,  to  think,  to  try  to  do  any- 


174  -     THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

thing  worth  doing;  and  the  engine-turned  preeision  is 
lost  at  once.  Out  come  all  his  roughness,  all  his  dul- 
ness,  all  his  incapability;  shame  upon  shame,  failure 
upon  failure,  pause  after  pause  :  but  out  comes  the 
whole  majesty  of  him  also ;  and  we  know  the  height  of 
it  only  when  we  see  the  clouds  settling  upon  him.  And, 
whether  the  clouds  be  bright  or  dark,  there  will  be 
transfiguration  behind  and  within  them. 

And  now,  reader,  look  round  this  English  room  of 
yours,  about  which  you  have  been  proud  so  often,  be- 
cause the  work  of  it  was  so  good  and  strong,  and  the 
ornaments  of  it  so  finished.  Examine  again  all  those  ac- 
curate mouldings,  and  perfect  polishings,  and  unerring 
adjustments  of  the  seasoned  wood  and  tempered  steeL 
Many  a  time  you  have  exulted  over  them,  and  thought 
how  great  England  was,  because  her  slightest  work  was 
done  so  thoroughly,  Alas!  if  read  rightly,  these  per- 
fectnesses  are  signs  of  a  slavery  in  our  England  a  thou- 
sand times  more  bitter  and  more  degrading  than  that 
of  the  scourged  African,  or  helot  Greek.  Men  may  be 
beaten,  chained,  tormented,  yoked  like  cattle,  slaugh- 
tered like  summer  flies,  and  yet  remain  in  one  sense, 
and  the  best  sense,  free.  But  to  smother  their  souls 
within  them,  to  blight  and  hew  into  rotting  pollards 
the  suckling  branches  of  their  human  intelligence,  to 
make  the  flesh  and  skin  which,  after  the  w^orm's  work 
on  it,  is  to  see  God,^  into  leathern  thongs  to  yoke  ma- 
chinery with,  —  this  it  is  to  be  slave-masters  indeed; 
and  there  might  be  more  freedom  in  England,  though 
her  feudal  lords'  lightest  words  were  worth  men's  lives, 
and  though  the  blood  of  the  vexed  husbandman 
dropped  in  the  furrow^s  of  her  fields,  than  there  is  while 
the  animation  of  her  multitudes  is  sent  like  fuel  to  feed 
^  Job  xix,  26. 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  175 

the  factory  smoke,  and  the  strength  of  them  is  given 
daily  to  be  wasted  into  the  fineness  of  a  web,  or  racked 
into  the  exactness  of  a  hne. 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  go  forth  again  to  gaze  upon 
the  old  cathedral  front,  where  you  have  smiled  so  ofter 
at  the  fantastic  ignorance  of  the  old  sculptors  :  examine 
once  more  those  ugly  goblins,  and  formless  monsters, 
and  stern  statues,  anatomiless  and  rigid ;  but  do  not 
mock  at  them,  for  they  are  signs  of  the  life  and  liberty 
of  every  workman  who  struck  the  stone ;  a  freedom  of 
thought,  and  rank  in  scale  of  being,  such  as  no  laws, 
no  charters,  no  charities  can  secure ;  but  which  it  must 
be  the  first  aim  of  all  Europe  at  this  day  to  regain  for 
her  children. 

Let  me  not  be  thought  to  speak  wildly  or  extrava- 
gantly. It  is  verily  this  degradation  of  the  operative 
into  a  machine,  which,  more  than  any  other  evil  of  the 
times,  is  leading  the  mass  of  the  nations  ever}^where 
into  vain,  incoherent,  destructive  struggling  for  a  free- 
dom of  which  they  cannot  explain  the  nature  to  them- 
selves. Their  universal  outcry  against  wealth,  and 
against  nobility,  is  not  forced  from  them  either  by  the 
pressure  of  famine,  or  the  sting  of  mortified  pride. 
These  do  much,  and  have  done  much  in  all  ages ;  but 
the  foundations  of  society  were  never  yet  shaken  as 
they  are  at  this  day.  It  is  not  that  men  are  ill  fed,  but 
that  they  have  no  pleasure  in  the  work  by  which  they 
make  their  bread,  and  therefore  look  to  wealth  as  the 
only  means  of  pleasure.  It  is  not  that  men  are  pained 
by  the  scorn  of  the  upper  classes,  but  they  cannot  en- 
dure their  own  ;  for  they  feel  that  the  kind  of  labour  to 
which  they  are  condemned  is  verily  a  degrading  one, 
and  makes  them  less  than  men.  Never  had  the  upper 
classes  so  much  sympathy  with  the  lower,  or  charity 


176  THE   STONES   OF  VENICE 

for  them,  as  they  have  at  this  day,  and  yet  neyer  were 
they  so  much  hated  by  them :  for,  of  old,  the  separation 
bet\veen  the  noble  and  the  poor  was  merely  a  wall  built 
by  law  ;  now  it  is  a  veritable  difference  in  level  of  stand- 
ing, a  precipice  between  upper  and  lower  grounds  in 
the  field  of  humanity,  and  there  is  pestilential  air  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  I  know  not  if  a  day  is  ever  to  come  when 
the  nature  of  right  freedom  will  be  understood,  and 
when  men  will  see  that  to  obey  another  man,  to  labour 
for  him,  yield  reverence  to  him  or  to  his  place,  is  not 
slavery.  It  is  often  the  best  kind  of  liberty,  —  liberty 
from  care.  The  man  who  says  to  one.  Go,  and  he  goeth, 
and  to  another,  Cume,  and  he  cometh,^  has,  in  most 
cases,  more  sense  of  restraint  and  difficulty  than  the 
man  who  obeys  him.  The  movements  of  the  one  are 
hindered  by  the  burden  on  his  shoulder ;  of  the  other, 
by  the  bridle  on  his  lips :  there  is  no  way  by  which  the 
burden  may  be  lightened  ;  but  we  need  not  suffer  from 
the  bridle  if  we  do  not  champ  at  it.  To  yield  reverence 
to  another,  to  hold  ourselves  and  our  lives  at  his  dis- 
posal, is  not  slavery;  often  it  is  the  noblest  state  in  which 
a  man  can  live  in  this  world.  There  is,  indeed,  a  rever- 
ence which  is  servile,  that  is  to  say  irrational  or  selfish : 
but  there  is  also  noble  reverence,  that  is  to  say,  reason- 
able and  loving ;  and  a  man  is  never  so  noble  as  when 
he  is  reverent  in  this  kind  ;  nay,  even  if  the  feeling  pass 
the  bounds  of  mere  reason,  so  that  it  be  loving,  a  man 
is  raised  by  it.  Which  had,  in  reality,  most  of  the  serf 
nature  in  him,  —  the  Irish  peasant  who  was  lying  in 
wait  yesterday  for  his  landlord,  with  his  musket  muzzle 
thrust  through  the  ragged  hedge ;  or  that  old  mountain 
servant,  who  200  years  ago,  at  Inverkeithing,  gave 
up  his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  his  seven  sons  for  his 

*  Mattliew  viii,  9. 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE  177 

chief  ?  —  as  each  fell,  calHng  forth  his  brother  to  the 
death,  "Another  for  Hector!"  ^  And  therefore,  in  all 
ages  and  all  countries,  reverence  has  been  paid  and 
sacrifice  made  by  men  to  each  other,  not  only  without 
complaint,  but  rejoicingly ;  and  famine,  and  peril,  and 
sword,  and  all  evil,  and  all  shame,  have  been  borne 
willingly  in  the  causes  of  masters  and  kings;  for  all 
these  gifts  of  the  heart  ennobled  the  men  who  gave, 
not  less  than  the  men  who  received  them,  and  nature 
prompted,  and  God  rewarded  the  sacrifice.  But  to  feel 
their  souls  withering  within  them,  unthanked,  to  find 
their  whole  being  sunk  into  an  unrecognized  abyss,  to 
be  counted  off  into  a  heap  of  mechanism,  numbered 
with  its  wheels,  and  weighed  with  its  hammer  strokes; 
—  this  nature  bade  not,  —  this  God  blesses  not,  — 
this  humanity  for  no  long  time  is  able  to  endure. 

We  have  much  studied  and  much  perfected,  of  late, 
the  great  civilized  invention  of  the  division  of  labour; 
only  we  give  it  a  false  name.  It  is  not,  truly  speaking, 
the  labour  that  is  divided ;  but  the  men :  —  Divided 
into  mere  segments  of  men  —  broken  into  small  frag- 
ments and  crumbs  of  life ;  so  that  all  the  little  piece  of 
intelligence  that  is  left  in  a  man  is  not  enough  to  make 
a  pin,  or  a  nail,  but  exhausts  itself  in  making  the  point 
of  a  pin  or  the  head  of  a  nail.  Now  it  is  a  good  and  de- 
sirable thing,  truly,  to  make  many  pins  in  a  day;  but 
if  we  could  only  see  with  what  crystal  sand  their  points 
were  polished,  —  sand  of  human  soul,  much  to  be  mag- 
nified before  it  can  be  discerned  for  what  it  is, —  we 
should  think  there  might  be  some  loss  in  it  also.  And 
the  great  cry  that  rises  from  all  our  manufacturing 
cities,  louder  than  their  furnace  blast,  is  all  in  very  deed 
for  this,  —  that  we  manufacture  everything  there  ex- 

^  Vide  Prerace  to  Fair  Maid  of  Perth.  [Ruskin.] 


178  THE   STONES  OF  VENICE 

cept  men;  we  blanch  cotton,  and  strengthen  steel,  and 
refine  sugar,  and  shape  pottery;  but  to  brighten,  to 
strengthen,  to  refine,  or  to  form  a  single  living  spirit, 
never  enters  into  our  estimate  of  advantages.  And  all 
the  evil  to  which  that  cry  is  urging  our  myriads  can  be 
met  only  in  one  way :  not  by  teaching  nor  preaching, 
for  to  teach  them  is  but  to  show  them  their  misery,  and 
to  preach  to  them,  if  we  do  nothing  more  than  preach, 
is  to  mock  at  it.  It  can  be  met  only  by  a  right  under- 
standing, on  the  part  of  all  classes,  of  what  kinds  of 
labour  are  good  for  men,  raising  them,  and  making 
them  happy;  by  a  determined  sacrifice  of  such  con- 
venience, or  beauty,  or  cheapness  as  is  to  be  got  only 
by  the  degradation  of  the  workman ;  and  by  equally 
determined  demand  for  the  products  and  results  of 
healthy  and  ennobling  labour. 

And  how,  it  will  be  asked,  are  these  products  to  be 
recognized,  and  this  demand  to  be  regulated  .^  Easily: 
by  the  observance  of  three  broad  and  simple  rules : 

1.  Never  encourage  the  manufacture  of  any  article 
not  absolutely  necessary,  in  the  production  of  which 
Invention  has  no  share. 

2.  Never  demand  an  exact  finish  for  its  own  sake, 
but  only  for  some  practical  or  noble  end. 

3.  Never  encourage  imitation  or  copying  of  any  kind, 
except  for  the  sake  of  preserving  record  of  great  works. 

The  second  of  these  principles  is  the  only  one  which 
directly  rises  out  of  the  consideration  of  our  immediate 
subject;  but  I  shall  briefly  explain  the  meaning  and 
extent  of  the  first  also,  reserving  the  enforcement  of  the 
third  for  another  place. 

1.  Never  encourage  the  manufacture  of  anything  not 
necessary,  in  the  production  of  which  invention  has  no 
share. 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  179 

For  instance.  Glass  beads  are  utterly  unnecessary, 
and  there  is  no  design  or  thought  employed  in  their 
manufacture.  They  are  formed  by  first  drawing  out 
the  glass  into  rods;  these  rods  are  chopped  up  into 
fragments  of  the  size  of  beads  by  the  human  hand,  and 
the  fragments  are  then  rounded  in  the  furnace.  The 
men  who  chop  up  the  rods  sit  at  their  work  all  day, 
their  hands  vibrating  w  ith  a  perpetual  and  exquisitely 
timed  palsy,  and  the  beads  dropping  beneath  their 
vibration  like  hail.  Neither  they,  nor  the  men  who 
draw^  out  the  rods  or  fuse  the  fragments,  have  the 
smallest  occasion  for  the  use  of  any  single  human 
faculty;  and  every  young  lady,  therefore,  who  buys 
glass  beads  is  engaged  in  the  slave-trade,  and  in  a  much 
more  cruel  one  than  that  which  we  have  so  long  been 
endeavouring  to  put  down. 

But  glass  cups  and  vessels  may  become  the  subjects 
of  exquisite  invention ;  and  if  in  buying  these  we  pay 
for  !he  invention,  that  is  to  say  for  the  beautiful  form, 
or  colour,  or  engraving,  and  not  for  mere  finish  of  ex- 
ecution, we  are  doing  good  to  humanity. 

So,  again,  the  cutting  of  precious  stones,  in  all  or- 
dinary cases,  requires  little  exertion  of  any  mental 
faculty;  some  tact  and  judgment  in  avoiding  flaws, 
and  so  on,  but  nothing  to  bring  out  the  whole  mind. 
Every  person  who  wears  cut  jewels  merely  for  the  sake 
of  their  value  is,  therefore,  a  slave-driver. 

But  the  working  of  the  goldsmith,  and  the  various. 
designing  of  grouped  jewellery  and  enamel-work,  may 
become  the  subject  of  the  most  noble  human  intelli- 
gence. Therefore,  money  spent  in  the  purchase  of 
w^ell-designed  plate,  of  precious  engraved  vases,  cam- 
eos, or  enamels,  does  good  to  humanity;  and,  in  work 
of  this  kind,  jewels  may  be  employed  to  heighten  its 


180  THE   STONES   OF  VENICE 

splendour;  and  their  cutting;  is  tlien  a  price  paid  for  the 
attainment  of  a  noble  end,  and  thus  perfectly  allowable. 
I  shall  perhaps  press  this  law  farther  elsewhere,  but 
our  immediate  concern  is  chiefly  with  the  second, 
namely,  never  to  demand  an  exact  finish,  when  it  does 
not  lead  to  a  noble  end.  For  observe,  I  have  only  dwelt 
upon  the  rudeness  of  Gothic,  or  any  other  kind  of  im- 
perfectness,  as  admirable,  where  it  was  impossible  to 
get  design  or  thought  without  it.  If  you  are  to  have 
the  thought  of  a  rough  and  untaught  man,  you  must 
have  it  in  a  rough  and  untaught  way;  but  from  an 
educated  man,  who  can  without  effort  express  his 
thoughts  in  an  educated  way,  take  the  graceful  expres- 
sion, and  be  thankful.  Only  get  the  thought,  and  do 
not  silence  the  peasant  because  he  cannot  speak  good 
grammar,  or  until  you  have  taught  him  his  grammar. 
Grammar  and  refinement  are  good  things,  both,  only 
be  sure  of  the  better  thing  first.  And  thus  in  art,  deli- 
cate finish  is  desirable  from  the  greatest  masters,  and 
is  always  given  by  them.  In  some  places  Michael  An- 
gelo,  Leonardo,  Phidias,  Perugino,  Turner,  all  finished 
with  the  most  exquisite  care ;  and  the  finish  they  give 
always  leads  to  the  fuller  accomplishment  of  their 
noble  purpose.  But  lower  men  than  these  cannot  finish, 
for  it  requires  consummate  knowledge  to  finish  con- 
summately, and  then  we  must  take  their  thoughts  as 
they  are  able  to  give  them.  So  the  rule  is  simple :  Al- 
ways look  for  invention  first,  and  after  that,  for  such 
execution  as  will  help  the  invention,  and  as  the  inventor 
is  capable  of  without  painful  effort,  and  no  more.  Above 
all,  demand  no  refinement  of  execution  where  there 
is  no  thought,  for  that  is  slaves'  work,  unredeemed. 
Rather  choose  rough  work  than  smooth  work,  so  only 
that  the  practical  purpose  be  answered,  and  never 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  181 

imagine  there  is  reason  to  be  proud  of  anything  that 
may  be  accompHshed  by  patience  and  sand-paper. 

I  shall  only  give  one  example,  which  however  will 
show  the  reader  what  I  mean,  from  the  manufacture 
already  alluded  to,  that  of  glass.  Our  modern  glass  is 
exquisitely  clear  in  its  substance,  true  in  its  form,  ac- 
curate in  its  cutting.  We  are  proud  of  this.  We  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  it.  The  old  Venice  glass  was  muddy, 
inaccurate  in  all  its  forms,  and  clumsily  cut,  if  at  all. 
And  the  old  Venetian  was  justly  proud  of  it.  For  there 
is  this  difference  between  the  English  and  Venetian 
workman,  that  the  former  thinks  only  of  accurately 
matching  his  patterns,  and  getting  his  curves  perfectly 
true  and  his  edges  perfectly  sharp,  and  becomes  a  mere 
machine  for  rounding  curves  and  sharpening  edges; 
while  the  old  Venetian  cared  not  a  whit  whether  his 
edges  were  sharp  or  not,  but  he  invented  a  new  design 
for  every  glass  that  he  made,  and  never  moulded  a 
handle  or  a  lip  without  a  new  fancy  in  it.  And  there- 
fore, though  some  Venetian  glass  is  ugly  and  clumsy 
enough  when  made  by  clumsy  and  uninventive  work- 
men, other  Venetian  glass  is  so  lovely  in  its  forms  that 
no  price  is  too  great  for  it ;  and  we  never  see  the  same 
form  in  it  twice.  Now  you  cannot  have  the  finish  and 
the  varied  form  too.  If  the  workman  is  thinking  about 
his  edges,  he  cannot  be  thinking  of  his  design ;  if  of  his 
design,  he  cannot  think  of  his  edges.  Choose  whether 
3^ou  will  pay  for  the  lovely  form  or  the  perfect  finish, 
and  choose  at  the  same  moment  whether  you  will  make 
the  worker  a  man  or  a  grindstone. 

Nay,  but  the  reader  interrupts  me,  —  "If  the  work- 
man can  design  beautifully,  I  would  not  have  him 
kept  at  the  furnace.  Let  him  be  taken  away  and  made 
a  gentleman,  and  have  a  studio,  and  design  his  glass 


182  THE  STONES   OF  VENICE 

there,  and  I  will  have  it  blown  and  cut  for  him  by  com- 
mon workmen,  and  so  I  will  have  my  design  and  my 
finish  too." 

All  ideas  of  this  kind  are  founded  upon  two  mis- 
taken suppositions :  the  first,  that  one  man's  thoughts 
can  be,  or  ought  to  be,  executed  by  another  man's 
hands;  the  second,  that  manual  labour  is  a  degrada- 
tion, when  it  is  governed  by  intellect. 

On  a  large  scale,  and  in  work  determinable  by  line 
and  rule,  it  is  indeed  both  possible  and  necessary  that 
the  thoughts  of  one  man  should  be  carried  out  by  the 
labour  of  others ;  in  this  sense  I  have  already  defined 
the  best  architecture  to  be  the  expression  of  the  mind  of 
manhood  by  the  hands  of  childhood.  But  on  a  smaller 
scale,  and  in  a  design  which  cannot  be  mathematically 
defined,  one  man's  thoughts  can  never  be  expressed  by 
another :  and  the  difference  between  the  spirit  of  touch 
of  the  man  who  is  inventing,  and  of  the  man  who  is 
obeying  directions,  is  often  all  the  difference  between 
a  great  and  a  common  w^ork  of  art.  How  wide  the  sepa- 
ration is  between  original  and  second-hand  execution, 
I  shall  endeavour  to  show  elsewhere ;  it  is  not  so  much 
to  our  purpose  here  as  to  mark  the  other  and  more  fatal 
error  of  despising  manual  labour  when  governed  by 
intellect ;  for  it  is  no  less  fatal  an  error  to  despise  it  when 
thus  regulated  by  intellect,  than  to  value  it  for  its  own 
sake.  We  are  always  in  these  days  endeavouring  to 
separate  the  two ;  we  want  one  man  to  be  always  think- 
ing, and  another  to  be  always  working,  and  we  call  one 
a  gentleman,  and  the  other  an  operative ;  whereas  the 
workman  ought  often  to  be  thinking,  and  the  thinker 
often  to  be  working,  and  both  should  be  gentlemen,  in 
the  best  sense.  As  it  is,  we  make  both  ungentle,  the 
one  envying,  the  other  despising,  his  brother ;  and  the 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  183 

mass  of  society  is  made  up  of  morbid  thinkers,  and 
miserable  workers.  Now  it  is  only  by  labour  that 
thought  can  be  made  healthy,  and  only  by  thought 
that  labour  can  be  made  happy,  and  the  two  cannot  be 
separated  with  impunity.  It  would  be  well  if  all  of  us 
were  good  handicraftsmen  in  some  kind,  and  the  dis- 
honour of  manual  labour  done  away  with  altogether; 
so  that  though  there  should  still  be  a  trenchant  dis- 
tinction of  race  between  nobles  and  commoners,  there 
should  not,  among  the  latter,  be  a  trenchant  distinction 
of  employment,  as  between  idle  and  working  men,  or 
between  men  of  liberal  and  illiberal  professions.  All 
professions  should  be  liberal,  and  there  should  be  less 
pride  felt  in  peculiarity  of  employment,  and  more  in 
excellence  of  achievement.  And  yet  more,  in  each 
several  profession,  no  master  should  be  too  proud  to  do 
its  hardest  work.  The  painter  should  grind  his  own 
colours;  the  architect  work  in  the  mason's  yard  with 
his  men ;  the  master-manufacturer  be  himself  a  more 
skilful  operative  than  any  man  in  his  mills ;  and  the 
distinction  between  one  man  and  another  be  only  in 
experience  and  skill,  and  the  authority  and  wealth  which 
these  must  naturally  and  justly  obtain. 

I  should  be  led  far  from  the  matter  in  hand,  if  I  were 
to  pursue  this  interesting  subject.  Enough,  I  trust,  has 
been  said  to  show  the  reader  that  the  rudeness  or  im- 
perfection w^hich  at  first  rendered  the  term  "Gothic" 
one  of  reproach  is  indeed,  w^hen  rightly  understood,  one 
of  the  most  noble  characters  of  Christian  architecture, 
and  not  only  a  noble  but  an  essential  one.  It  seems  a 
fantastic  paradox,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  most  impor- 
tant truth,  that  no  architecture  can  be  truly  noble  which 
is  not  imperfect.  And  this  is  easily  demonstrable.  For 
since  the  architect,  whom  we  will  suppose  capable  of 


181  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

doing  all  in  perfection,  cannot  execute  the  whole  with 
his  own  hands,  he  must  either  make  slaves  of  his  work- 
men in  the  old  Greek,  and  present  English  fashion,  and 
level  his  work  to  a  slave's  capacities,  which  is  to  degrade 
it ;  or  else  he  must  take  his  workmen  as  he  finds  them, 
and  let  them  show  their  weaknesses  together  with  their 
strength,  which  will  involve  the  Gothic  imperfection, 
but  render  the  whole  work  as  noble  as  the  intellect  of 
the  age  can  make  it. 

But  the  principle  may  be  stated  more  broadly  still. 
I  have  confined,  the  illustration  of  it  to  architecture, 
but  I  must  not  leave  it  as  if  true  of  architecture  only: 
Hitherto  I  have  used  the  words  imperfect  and  perfect 
merely  to  distinguish  between  work  grossly  unskilful, 
and  work  executed  with  average  precision  and  science : 
and  I  have  been  pleading  that  any  degree  of  unskilful- 
ness  should  be  admitted,  so  only  that  the  labourer's 
mind  had  room  for  expression.  But,  accurately  speak- 
ing, no  good  work  whatever  can  be  perfect,  and  the  de- 
mand for  perfection  is  always  a  sign  of  a  misunderstand- 
ing of  the  ends  of  art. 

This  for  two  reasons,  both  based  on  everlasting  laws. 
The  first,  that  no  great  man  ever  stops  working  till  he 
has  reached  his  point  of  failure:  that  is  to  say,  his  mind 
is  always  far  in  advance  of  his  powders  of  execution, 
and  the  latter  will  now  and  then  give  way  in  trying  to 
follow  it ;  besides  that  he  will  always  give  to  the  inferior 
portions  of  his  work  only  such  inferior  attention  as  they 
require ;  and  according  to  his  greatness  he  becomes  so 
accustomed  to  the  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  with  the 
best  he  can  do,  that  in  moments  of  lassitude  or  anger 
with  himself  he  will  not  care  though  the  beholder  be 
dissatisfied  also.  I  believe  there  has  only  been  one  man 
who  would  not  acknowledge  this  necessity,  and  strove 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  185 

always  to  reach  perfection,  Leonardo;  the  end  of  his 
vain  effort  being  merely  that  he  would  take  ten  years 
to  a  picture  and  leave  it  unfinished.  And  therefore,  if 
we  are  to  have  great  men  working  at  all,  or  less  men 
doing  their  best,  the  work  will  be  imperfect,  however 
beautiful.  Of  human  work  none  but  what  is  bad  can 
be  perfect,  in  its  own  bad  way.^ 

The  second  reason  is,  that  imperfection  is  in  some 
sort  essential  to  all  that  we  know  of  life.  It  is  the  sign 
of  life  in  a  mortal  body,  that  is  to  say,  of  a  state  of  pro- 
gress and  change.  Nothing  that  lives  is,  or  can  be, 
rigidly  perfect ;  part  of  it  is  decaying,  part  nascent.  The 
foxglove  blossom,  —  a  third  part  bud,  a  third  part  past, 
a  third  part  in  full  bloom,  —  is  a  type  of  the  life  of  this 
world.  And  in  all  things  that  live  there  are  certain  irreg- 
ularities and  deficiencies  which  are  not  only  signs  of 
life,  but  sources  of  beauty.  No  human  face  is  exactly 
the  same  in  its  lines  on  each  side,  no  leaf  perfect  in  its 
lobes,  no  branch  in  its  symmetry.  All  admit  irregu- 
larity as  they  imply  change ;  and  to  banish  imperfection 
is  to  destroy  expression,  to  check  exertion,  to  paralyze 
vitality.  All  things  are  literally  better,  lovelier,  and 
more  beloved  for  the  imperfections  which  have  been 
divinely  appointed,  that  the  law  of  human  life  may  be 
Effort,  and  the  law  of  human  judgment,  Mercy. 

Accept  this  then  for  a  universal  law,  that  neither 
architecture  nor  any  other  noble  work  of  man  can  be 
good  unless  it  be  imperfect ;  and  let  us  be  prepared  for 
the  otherwise  strange  fact,  which  we  shall  discern 
clearly  as  we  approach  the  period  of  the  Renaissance, 

*  The  Elsin  marbles  are  supposed  by  many  persons  to  be  "per- 
fect." In  the  most  important  portions  they  indeed  approach  perfec- 
tion, but  only  there.  The  draperies  are  unfinished,  the  hair  and  wool 
of  the  animals  are  unfinished,  and  the  entire  bas-reliefs  of  the  frieze 
are  roughly  cut.   [Ruskin.] 


18G  THE    STOxNES    OF    VENICE 

that  the  first  cause  of  the  fall  of  the  arts  of  Europe  was 
a  relentless  requirement  of  perfection,  incapable  alike 
either  of  bein<^  silenced  by  veneration  for  greatness,  or 
softened  into  forgiveness  of  simplicity. 

Thus  far  then  of  the  Rudeness  or  Savageness,  which 
is  the  first  mental  element  of  Gothic  architecture.  It  is 
an  element  in  many  other  healthy  architectures  also, 
as  in  Byzantine  and  Romanesque ;  but  true  Gothic  can- 
not exist  without  it. 

The  second  mental  element  above  named  was 
Changefulness,  or  Variety. 

I  have  already  enforced  the  allowing  independent 
operation  to  the  inferior  workman,  simply  as  a  duty  to 
him,  and  as  ennobling  the  architecture  by  rendering  it 
more  Christian.  We  have  now  to  consider  what  reward 
we  obtain  for  the  performance  of  this  duty,  namely, 
the  perpetual  variety  of  every  feature  of  the  building. 

Wherever  the  workman  is  utterly  enslaved,  the  parts 
of  the  building  must  of  course  be  absolutely  like  each 
other;  for  the  perfection  of  his  execution  can  only  be 
reached  by  exercising  him  in  doing  one  thing,  and  giv- 
ing him  nothing  else  to  do.  The  degree  in  which  the 
workman  is  degraded  may  be  thus  known  at  a  glance, 
by  observing  whether  the  several  parts  of  the  building 
are  similar  or  not ;  and  if,  as  in  Greek  work,  all  the  cap- 
itals are  alike,  and  all  the  mouldings  unvaried,  then  the 
degradation  is  complete ;  if,  as  in  Egyptian  or  Ninevite 
work,  though  the  manner  of  executing  certain  figures 
is  always  the  same,  the  order  of  design  is  perpetually 
varied,  the  degradation  is  less  total;  if,  as  in  Gothic 
work,  there  is  perpetual  change  both  in  design  and  exe- 
cution, the  workman  must  have  been  altogether  set  free. 

How  much  the  beholder  (jains  from  the  libertv  of  the 
labourer  may  perhaps  be  questioned  in  England,  where 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  187 

one  of  the  strongest  instincts  in  nearly  every  mind  is 
that  Love  of  Order  which  makes  us  desire  that  our 
house  windows  should  pair  like  our  carriage  horses, 
and  allows  us  to  yield  our  faith  unhesitatingly  to  archi- 
tectural theories  which  fix  a  form  for  everything,  and 
forbid  variation  from  it.  I  would  not  impeach  love  of 
order :  it  is  one  of  the  most  useful  elements  of  the  Eng- 
lish mind  ;  it  helps  us  in  our  commerce  and  in  all  purely 
practical  matters;  and  it  is  in  many  cases  one  of  the 
foundation  stones  of  morality.  Only  do  not  let  us  sup- 
pose that  love  of  order  is  love  of  art.  It  is  true  that 
order,  in  its  highest  sense,  is  one  of  the  necessities  of 
art,  just  as  time  is  a  necessity  of  music;  but  love  of 
order  has  no  more  to  do  with  our  right  enjoyment  of 
architecture  or  painting,  than  love  of  punctuaHty  with 
the  appreciation  of  an  opera.  Experience,  I  fear, 
teaches  us  that  accurate  and  methodical  habits  in  daily 
life  are  seldom  characteristic  of  those  who  either  quickly 
perceive,  or  richly  possess,  the  creative  powers  of  art; 
there  is,  however,  nothing  inconsistent  between  the  two 
instincts,  and  nothing  to  hinder  us  from  retaining  our 
business  habits,  and  yet  fully  allowing  and  enjoying 
the  noblest  gifts  of  Invention.  We  already  do  so,  in 
every  other  branch  of  art  except  architecture,  and  we 
only  do  not  so  there  because  we  have  been  taught  that 
it  would  be  wrong.  Our  architects  gravely  inform  us 
that,  as  there  are  four  rules  of  arithmetic,  there  are  five 
orders  of  architecture ;  we,  in  our  simplicity,  think  that 
this  sounds  consistent,  and  believe  them.  They  inform 
us  also  that  there  is  one  proper  form  for  Corinthian 
capitals,  another  for  Doric,  and  another  for  Ionic.  We, 
considering  that  there  is  also  a  proper  form  for  the 
letters  A,  B,  and  C,  think  that  this  also  sounds  consist- 
ent, and  accept  the  proposition.  Understanding,  there- 


188  THE   STONES    OF   VENICE 

fore,  that' one  form  of  the  said  capitals  is  proper,  and 
no  other,  and  havintj;  a  conscientious  horror  of  all  im- 
propriety, we  allow  the  architect  to  provide  us  with  the 
said  capitals,  of  the  proper  form,  in  such  and  such  a 
quantity,  and  in  all  other  points  to  take  care  that  the 
legal  forms  are  observed  ;  which  having  done,  we  rest 
in  forced  confidence  that  we  are  well  housed. 

But  our  higher  instincts  are  not  deceived.  We  take 
no  pleasure  in  the  building  provided  for  us,  resembling 
that  which  we  take  in  a  new  book  or  a  new  picture.  We 
may  be  proud  of  its  size,  complacent  in  its  correctness, 
and  happy  in  its  convenience.  We  may  take  the  same 
pleasure  in  its  symmetry  and  workmanship  as  in  a  well- 
ordered  room,  or  a  skilful  piece  of  manufacture.  And 
this  we  suppose  to  be  all  the  pleasure  that  architecture 
was  ever  intended  to  give  us.  The  idea  of  reading  a 
building  as  we  would  read  Milton  or  Dante,  and  getting 
the  same  kind  of  delight  out  of  the  stones  as  out  of  the 
stanzas,  never  enters  our  minds  for  a  moment.  And 
for  good  reason  ;  —  There  is  indeed  rhythm  in  the  verses, 
quite  as  strict  as  the  symmetries  or  rhythm  of  the  archi- 
tecture, and  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful,  but  there 
is  something  else  than  rhythm.  The  verses  were  neither 
made  to  order,  nor  to  match,  as  the  capitals  were ;  and 
we  have  therefore  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  them  other  than 
a  sense  of  propriety.  But  it  requires  a  strong  effort  of 
common  sense  to  shake  ourselves  quit  of  all  that  we 
have  been  taught  for  the  last  two  centuries,  and  wake 
to  the  perception  of  a  truth  just  as  simple  and  certain 
as  it  is  new :  that  great  art,  whether  expressing  itself  in 
words,  colours,  or  stones,  does  not  say  the  same  thing 
over  and  over  again;  that  the  merit  of  architectural, 
as  of  every  other  art,  consists  in  its  saying  new  and  dif- 
ferent things ;  that  to  repeat  itself  is  no  more  a  charac- 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE  189 

teristic  of  genius  in  marble  than  it  is  of  genius  in  print; 
and  that  we  may,  without  offending  any  laws  of  good 
taste,  require  of  an  architect,  as  we  do  of  a  novelist, 
that  he  should  be  not  only  correct,  but  entertaining. 

Yet  all  this  is  true,  and  self-evident;  only  hidden 
from  us,  as  many  other  self-evident  things  are,  by  false 
teaching.  Nothing  is  a  great  work  of  art,  for  the  pro- 
duction of  which  either  rules  or  models  can  be  given. 
Exactly  so  far  as  architecture  works  on  known  rules, 
and  from  given  models,  it  is  not  an  art,  but  a  manu- 
facture ;  and  it  is,  of  the  two  procedures,  rather  less  ra- 
tional (because  more  easy)  to  copy  capitals  or  mouldings 
from  Phidias,  and  call  ourselves  architects,  than  to 
copy  heads  and  hands  from  Titian,  and  call  ourselves 
painters. 

Let  us  then  understand  at  once  that  change  or  vari- 
ety is  as  much  a  necessity  to  the  human  heart  and  brain 
in  buildings  as  in  books ;  that  there  is  no  merit,  though 
there  is  some  occasional  use,  in  monotony;  and  that 
we  must  no  more  expect  to  derive  either  pleasure  or 
profit  from  an  architecture  whose  ornaments  are  of  one 
pattern,  and  whose  pillars  are  of  one  proportion,  than 
we  should  out  of  a  universe  in  which  the  clouds  were 
all  of  one  shape,  and  the  trees  all  of  one  size. 

And  this  we  confess  in  deeds,  though  not  in  words. 
All  the  pleasure  which  the  people  of  the  nineteenth 
century  take  in  art,  is  in  pictures,  sculpture,  minor  ob- 
jects of  virtu,  or  mediaeval  architecture,  which  we  enjoy 
under  the  term  picturesque :  no  pleasure  is  taken  any- 
where in  modern  buildings,  and  we  find  all  men  of  true 
jeeling  delighting  to  escape  out  of  modern  cities  into 
natural  scenery :  hence,  as  I  shall  hereafter  show,  that 
peculiar  love  of  landscape,  which  is  characteristic  of 
the  age.   It  would  be  well,  if,  in  all  other  matters,  we 


100  THE   STONES    OF   VENICE 

were  as  ready  to  put  up  with  what  we  dishke,  for  the 
sake  of  eomphanee  with  estabhshed  law,  as  we  are  ia 
architecture. 

How  so  debased  a  law  ever  came  to  be  estabhshed, 
we  shall  see  when  we  come  to  describe  the  Renaissance 
schools ;  here  we  have  only  to  note,  as  the  second  most 
essential  element  of  the  Gothic  spirit,  that  it  broke 
through  that  law  wherever  it  found  it  in  existence;  it 
not  only  dared,  but  delighted  in,  the  infringement  of 
every  servile  principle ;  and  invented  a  series  of  forms 
of  which  the  merit  was,  not  merely  that  they  were  new, 
but  that  they  were  capable  of  perpetual  novelty.  The 
pointed  arch  was  not  merely  a  bold  variation  from  the 
round,  but  it  admitted  of  millions  of  variations  in  itself; 
for  the  proportions  of  a  pointed  arch  are  changeable  to 
infinity,  while  a  circular  arch  is  always  the  same.  The 
grouped  shaft  was  not  merely  a  bold  variation  from 
the  single  one,  but  it  admitted  of  millions  of  variations 
in  its  grouping,  and  in  the  proportions  resultant  from 
its  grouping.  The  introduction  of  tracery  was  not  only 
a  startling  change  in  the  treatment  of  window  lights, 
but  admitted  endless  changes  in  the  interlacement  of 
the  tracery  bars  themselves.  So  that,  while  in  all  living 
Christian  architecture  the  love  of  variety  exists,  the 
Gothic  schools  exhibited  that  love  in  culminating  en- 
ergy; and  their  influence,  wherever  it  extended  itself, 
may  be  sooner  and  farther  traced  by  this  character 
than  by  any  other;  the  tendency  to  the  adoption  of 
Gothic  types  being  always  first  shown  by  greater  irreg- 
ularity, and  richer  variation  in  the  forms  of  the  archi- 
tecture it  is  about  to  supersede,  long  before  the  appear- 
ance of  the  pointed  arch  or  of  any  other  recognizable 
outward  sign  of  the  Gothic  mind. 

We  must,  however,  herein  note  carefully  what  dis- 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  191 

tinction  there  is  between  a  healthy  and  a  diseased  love 
of  change;  for  as  it  was  in  healthy  love  of  change  that 
the  Gothic  architecture  rose,  it  was  partly  in  conse- 
quence of  diseased  love  of  change  that  it  was  destroyed. 
In  order  to  understand  this  clearly,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  consider  the  different  w^ays  in  which  change  and 
monotony  are  presented  to  us  in  nature;  both  having 
their  use,  like  darkness  and  light,  and  the  one  incapable 
of  being  enjoyed  without  the  other :  change  being  most 
delightful  after  some  prolongation  of  monotony,  as  light 
appears  most  brilliant  after  the  eyes  have  been  for  some 
time  closed. 

I  believe  that  the  true  relations  of  monotony  and 
change  may  be  most  simply  understood  by  observing 
them  in  music.  We  may  therein  notice  first,  that  there 
is  a  sublimfty  and  majesty  in  monotony,  which  there 
is  not  in  rapid  or  frequent  variation.  This  is  true 
throughout  all  nature.  The  greater  part  of  the  sub- 
limity of  the  sea  depends  on  its  monotony ;  so  also  that 
of  desolate  moor  and  mountain  scenery;  and  especially 
the  sublimity  of  motion,  as  in  the  quiet,  unchanged 
fall  and  rise  of  an  engine  beam.  So  also  there  is  sub- 
hmity  in  darkness  which  there  is  not  in  light. 

Again,  monotony  after  a  certain  time,  or  beyond  a 
certain  degree,  becomes  either  uninteresting  or  intol- 
erable, and  the  musician  is  obliged  to  break  it  in  one 
or  two  ways  :  either  while  the  air  or  passage  is  perpetu- 
ally repeated,  its  notes  are  variously  enriched  and  har- 
monized; or  else,  after  a  certain  number  of  repeated 
passages,  an  entirely  new  passage  is  introduced,  which 
is  more  or  less  delightful  according  to  the  length  of  the 
previous  monotony.  Nature,  of  course,  uses  both  these 
kinds  of  variation  perpetually.  The  sea-waves,  resem- 
bling each   other  in  general  mass,  but  none  like  it» 


192  THE  STONES    OF    VENICE 

brother  in  minor  divisions  and  curves,  ^re  a  monotony 
of  tlie  first  kind;  the  great  phiin,  broken  by  an  emer- 
gent rock  or  clump  of  trees,  is  a  monotony  of  the  second. 

Farther :  in  order  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  change  in 
either  case, a  certain  degree  of  patience  is  required  from 
the  hearer  or  observer.  In  the  first  case,  he  must  be 
satisfied  to  endure  with  patience  the  recurrence  of  the 
great  masses  of  sound  or  form,  and  to  seek  for  enter- 
tainment in  a  careful  watchfulness  of  the  minor  details. 
In  the  second  case,  he  must  bear  patiently  the  infliction 
of  the  monotony  for  some  moments,  in  order  to  feel  the 
full  refreshment  of  the  change.  This  is  true  even  of 
the  shortest  musical  passage  in  which  the  element  of 
monotony  is  employed.  In  cases  of  more  majestic  mo- 
notony, the  patience  required  is  so  considerable  that  it 
becomes  a  kind  of  pain,  —  a  price  paid  for  the  future 
pleasure. 

Again :  the  talent  of  the  composer  is  not  in  the  mo- 
notony, but  in  the  changes :  he  may  show  feeling  and 
taste  by  his  use  of  monotony  in  certain  places  or  de- 
grees; that  is  to  say,  by  his  various  employment  of  it; 
but  it  is  always  in  the  new  arrangement  or  invention 
that  his  intellect  is  shown,  and  not  in  the  monotony 
which  relieves  it. 

Lastly :  if  the  pleasure  of  change  be  too  often  re- 
peated, it  ceases  to  be  delightful,  for  then  change  itself 
becomes  monotonous,  and  w^e  are  driven  to  seek  de- 
light in  extreme  and  fantastic  degrees  of  it.  This  is  the 
diseased  love  of  change  of  which  we  have  above  spoken. 

From  these  facts  we  may  gather  generally  that  mo- 
notony is,  and  ought  to  be,  in  itself  painful  to  us,  just 
as  darkness  is ;  that  an  architecture  which  is  altogether 
monotonous  is  a  dark  or  dead  architecture;  and  of 
those  who  love  it,  it  may  be  truly  said,  "  they  love  dark- 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  193 

ness  rather  than  light."  But  monotony  in  certain  mea- 
sure, used  in  order  to  give  value  to  change,  and  above 
all,  that  transparent  monotony,  which,  like  the  shadows 
of  a  great  painter,  suffers  all  manner  of  dimly  suggested 
form  to  be  seen  through  the  body  of  it,  is  an  essential 
in  architectural  as  in  all  other  composition  ;  and  the  en- 
durance of  monotony  has  about  the  same  place  in  a 
healthy  mind  that  the  endurance  of  darkness  has :  that 
is  to  say,  as  a  strong  intellect  will  have  pleasure  in  the 
solemnities  of  storm  and  twilight,  and  in  the  broken 
and  mysterious  lights  that  gleam  among  them,  rather 
than  in  mere  brilliancy  and  glare,  while  a  frivolous 
mind  will  dread  the  shadow  and  the  storm ;  and  as  a 
great  man  will  be  ready  to  endure  much  darkness  of 
fortune  in  order  to  reach  greater  eminence  of  power  or 
felicity,  while  an  inferior  man  will  not  pay  the  price; 
exactly  in  like  manner  a  great  mind  will  accept,  or  even 
delight  in,  monotony  which  would  be  wearisome  to  an 
inferior  intellect,  because  it  has  more  patience  and 
power  of  expectation,  and  is  ready  to  pay  the  full  price 
for  the  great  future  pleasure  of  change.  But  in  all  cases 
it  is  not  that  the  noble  nature  loves  monotony,  any  more 
than  it  loves  darkness  or  pain.  But  it  can  bear  with  it, 
and  receives  a  high  pleasure  in  the  endurance  or  pa- 
tience, a  pleasure  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  this 
world ;  while  those  who  will  not  submit  to  the  tempo- 
rary sameness,  but  rush  from  one  change  to  another, 
gradually  dull  the  edge  of  change  itself,  and  bring  a 
shadow  and  weariness  over  the  whole  world  from  which 
there  is  no  more  escape. 

From  these  general  uses  of  variety  in  the  economy  of 
the  world,  we  may  at  once  understand  its  use  and  abuse 
in  architecture.  The  variety  of  the  Gothic  schools  is 
the  more  healthy  and  beautiful,  because  in  many  cases 


194  THE   STONES   OF   VENICE 

it  is  entirely  unstudied,  and  results,  not  from  the  mere 
love  of  change,  but  from  practical  necessities.  For  in 
one  point  of  view  Gothic  is  not  only  the  best,  but  the 
only  rational  architecture,  as  being  that  which  can  fit 
itself  most  easily  to  all  services,  vulgar  or  noble.  Un- 
defined in  its  slope  of  roof,  height  of  shaft,  breadth  of 
arch,  or  disposition  of  ground  plan,  it  can  shrink  into  a 
turret,  expand  into  a  hall,  coil  into  a  staircase,  or  spring 
into  a  spire,  with  undegraded  grace  and  unexhausted 
enerirv;  and  whenever  it  finds  occasion  for  change  in 
its  form  or  purpose,  it  submits  to  it  without  the  slightest 
sense  of  loss  either  to  its  unity  or  majesty,  —  subtle 
and  flexible  like  a  fiery  serpent,  but  ever  attentive  to 
the  voice  of  the  charmer.  And  it  is  one  of  the  chief  vir- 
tues of  the  Gothic  builders,  that  they  never  suffered 
ideas  of  outside  symmetries  and  consistencies  to  inter- 
fere with  the  real  use  and  value  of  what  they  did.  If 
they  wanted  a  window,  they  opened  one ;  a  room,  they 
added  one ;  a  buttress,  they  built  one  ;  utterly  regardless 
of  any  established  conventionalities  of  external  appear- 
ance, knowing  (as  indeed  it  always  happened)  that 
such  daring  interruptions  of  the  formal  plan  would 
rather  give  additional  interest  to  its  symmetry  than  in- 
jure it.  So  that,  in  the  best  times  of  Gothic,  a  useless 
window  would  rather  have  been  opened  in  an  unex- 
pected place  for  the  sake  of  the  surprise,  than  a  useful 
one  forbidden  for  the  sake  of  symmetry.  Every  succes- 
sive architect,  employed  upon  a  great  work,  built  the 
pieces  he  added  in  his  own  way,  utterly  regardless  of 
the  style  adopted  by  his  predecessors ;  and  if  two  towers 
were  raised  in  nominal  correspondence  at  the  sides  of  a 
cathedral  front,  one  was  nearly  sure  to  be  different  from 
the  other,  and  in  each  the  style  at  the  top  to  be  different 
from  the  stvle  at  the  bottom. 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  195 

These  marked  variations  were,  however,  only  per- 
mitted as  part  of  the  great  system  of  perpetual  change 
which  ran  through  every  member  of  Gothic  design, 
and  rendered  it  as  endless  a  field  for  the  beholder's 
inquiry  as  for  the  builder's  imagination  :  change,  which 
in  the  best  schools  is  subtle  and  delicate,  and  rendered 
more  delightful  by  interminghng  of  a  noble  monotony; 
in  the  more  barbaric  schools  is  somewhat  fantastic  and 
redundant;  but,  in  all,  a  necessary  and  constant  condi- 
tion of  the  life  of  the  school.  Sometimes  the  variety  is 
in  one  feature,  sometimes  in  another;  it  may  be  in  the 
capitals  or  crockets,  in  the  niches  or  the  traceries,  or  in 
all  together,  but  in  some  one  or  other  of  the  features  it 
will  be  found  always.  If  the  mouldings  are  constant, 
the  surface  sculpture  will  change ;  if  the  capitals  are  of 
a  fixed  design,  the  traceries  will  change ;  if  the  traceries 
are  monotonous,  the  capitals  will  change;  and  if  even, 
as  in  some  fine  schools,  the  early  English  for  example, 
there  is  the  slightest  approximation  to  an  unvarying 
type  of  mouldings,  capitals,  and  floral  decoration,  the 
variety  is  found  in  the  disposition  of  the  masses,  and 
in  the  figure  sculpture. 

I  must  now  refer  for  a  moment,  before  w^e  quit  the 
consideration  of  this,  the  second  mental  element  of 
Gothic,  to  the  opening  of  the  third  chapter  of  the  Seven 
Lamps  of  Architecture,  in  which  the  distinction  was 
drawn  (§  2)  between  man  gathering  and  man  govern- 
ing; between  his  acceptance  of  the  sources  of  delight 
from  nature,  and  his  development  of  authoritative  or 
imaginative  power  in  their  arrangement :  for  the  two 
mental  elements,  not  only  of  Gothic,  but  of  all  good 
architecture,  which  we  have  just  been  examining,  be- 
long to  it,  and  are  admirable  in  it,  chiefly  as  it  is,  more 
than  any  other  subject  of  art,  the  work  of  man,  and  the 


196  THE    STONES  OF   VENICE 

expression  of  the  average  power  of  man.  A  picture  or 
poem  is  often  little  more  than  a  feeble  utterance  of 
man's  admiration  of  something  out  of  himself;  but 
architecture  approaches  more  to  a  creation  of  his  own, 
born  of  his  necessities,  and  expressive  of  his  nature.  It 
is  also,  in  some  sort,  the  work  of  the  whole  race,  while 
the  picture  or  statue  are  the  work  of  one  only,  in  most 
cases  more  highly  gifted  than  his  fellows.  And  there- 
fore we  may  expect  that  the  jQrst  two  elements  of  good 
architecture  should  be  expressive  of  some  great  truths 
commonly  belonging  to  the  whole  race,  and  necessary 
to  be  understood  or  felt  by  them  in  all  their  work  that 
they  do  under  the  sun.  And  observe  what  they  are: 
the  confession  of  Imperfection,  and  the  confession  of 
Desire  of  Change.  The  buildino:  of  the  bird  and  the 
bee  needs  not  express  anything  like  this.  It  is  perfect 
and  unchanging.  But  just  because  we  are  something 
better  than  birds  or  bees,  our  building  must  confess 
that  we  have  not  reached  the  perfection  we  can  ima- 
gine, and  cannot  rest  in  the  condition  we  have  attained. 
If  we  pretend  to  have  reached  either  perfection  or  satis- 
faction, we  have  degraded  ourselves  and  our  work. 
God's  work  only  may  express  that ;  but  ours  may  never 
have  that  sentence  written  upon  it,  —  "And  behold,  it 
was  very  good."  And,  observe  again,  it  is  not  merely 
as  it  renders  the  edifice  a  book  of  various  knowledge, 
or  a  mine  of  precious  thought,  that  variety  is  essential 
to  its  nobleness.  The  vital  principle  is  not  the  love  of 
Knowledge,  but  the  love  of  Change.  It  is  that  strange 
disquietude  of  the  Gothic  spirit  that  is  its  greatness; 
that  restlessness  of  the  dreaming  mind,  that  wanders 
hither  and  thither  among  the  niches,  and  flickers  fever- 
ishly around  the  pinnacles,  and  frets  and  fades  in  laby- 
rinthine knots  and  shadows  alono^  wall  and  roof,  and 


GOTHIC   ARCHITECTURE  197 

yet  is  not  satisfied,  nor  shall  be  satisfied.  The  Greek 
could  stay  in  his  triglyph  furrow,  and  be  at  peace ;  but 
the  work  of  the  Gothic  heart  is  fretwork  still,  and  it  can 
neither  rest  in,  nor  from,  its  labour,  but  must  pass  on, 
sleeplessly,  until  its  love  of  change  shall  be  pacified 
for  ever  in  the  change  that  must  come  alike  on  them 
that  wake  and  them  that  sleep.  .  .  . 

Last,  because  the  least  essential,  of  the  constituent 
elements  of  this  noble  school,  was  placed  that  of  Re- 
dundance, —  the  uncalculating  bestowal  of  the  wealth 
of  its  labour.  There  is,  indeed,  much  Gothic,  and  that 
of  the  best  period,  in  which  this  element  is  hardly  trace- 
able, and  which  depends  for  its  effect  almost  exclu- 
sively on  loveliness  of  simple  design  and  grace  of  un- 
involved  proportion;  stilU  in  the  most  characteristic 
buildings,  a  certain  portion  of  their  effect  depends  upon 
accumulation  of  ornament;  and  many  of  those  which 
have  most  influence  on  the  minds  of  men,  have  attained 
it  by  means  of  this  attribute  alone.  And  although,  by 
careful  study  of  the  school,  it  is  possible  to  arrive  at  a 
condition  of  taste  which  shall  be  better  contented  by  a 
few  perfect  lines  than  by  a  whole  fa9ade  covered  with 
fretwork,  the  building  which  only  satisfies  such  a  taste 
is  not  to  be  considered  the  best.  For  the  very  first 
requirement  of  Gothic  architecture  being,  as  we  saw 
above,  that  it  shall  both  admit  the  aid,  and  appeal  to 
the  admiration,  of  the  rudest  as  well  as  the  most  re- 
fined minds,  the  richness  of  the  work  is,  paradoxical  as 
the  statement  may  appear,  a  part  of  its  humility.  No 
architecture  is  so  haughty  as  that  which  is  simple; 
which  refuses  to  address  the  eye,  except  in  a  few  clear 
and  forceful  lines ;  which  implies,  in  offering  so  little  to 
our  regards,  that  all  it  has  offered  is  perfect;  and  dis- 
dains, either  by  the  complexity  of  the  attractiveness  of 


198  THE    STONES    OF    VENICE 

its  features,  to  embarrass  our  investigation,  or  betray 
us  into  delight.    That  humility,  which  is  the  very  life 
of  the  Gothic  school,  is  shown  not  only  in  the  imper- 
fection, but  in  the  accumulation,  of  ornament.    The 
inferior  rank  of  the  workman  is  often  shown  as  much 
in  the  richness,  as  the  roughness,  of  his  work;  and  if 
the  co-operation  of  every  hand,  and  the  sympathy  of 
every  heart,  are  to  be  received,  we  must  be  content  to 
allow  the  redundance  which  disguises  the  failure  of  the 
feeble,  and  wins  the  regard  of  the  inattentive.    There 
are,   however,   far   nobler  interests  mingling,   in   the 
Gothic  heart,  with  the  rude  love  of  decorative  accumu- 
lation :  a  magnificent  enthusiasm,  which  feels  as  if  it 
never  could  do  enough  to  reach  the  fulness  of  its  ideal ; 
an  unselfishness  of  sacrifice,  which  would  rather  cast 
fruitless  labour  before  the  altar  than  stand  idle  in  the 
market;  and,  finally,  a  profound  sympathy  with  the 
fulness  and  wealth  of  the  material  universe,  rising  out 
of  that  Naturalism  whose  operation  we  have  already 
endeavoured  to  define.    The  sculptor  who  sought  for 
his  models  among  the  forest  leaves,  could  not  but 
quickly  and  deeply  feel  that  complexity  need  not  in- 
volve the  loss  of  grace,  nor  richness  that  of  repose ;  and 
every  hour  which  he  spent  in  the  study  of  the  minute 
and  various  work  of  Nature,  made  him  feel  more  for- 
cibly the  barrenness  of  what  was  best  in  that  of  man : 
nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  that,  seeing  her  perfect  and 
exquisite  creations  poured  forth  in  a  profusion  which 
conception  could  not  grasp  nor  calculation  sum,  he 
should  think  that  it  ill  became  him  to  be  niggardly  of 
his  own  rude  craftsmanship ;  and  where  he  saw  through- 
out the  universe  a  faultless  beauty  lavished  on  mea- 
sureless spaces  of  broidered  field  and  blooming  moun- 
tain, to  grudge  his  poor  and  imperfect  labour  to  the 


GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE  199 

few  stones  that  he  had  raised  one  upon  another,  for 
habitation  or  memorial.  The  years  of  his  life  passed 
away  before  his  task  was  accomplished;  but  genera- 
tion succeeded  generation  with  unwearied  enthusiasm, 
and  the  cathedral  front  was  at  last  lost  in  the  tapestry 
of  its  traceries,  like  a  rock  among  the  thickets  and  herb- 
age of  spring. 


SELECTIONS  FROM 
THE   SEVEN   LAMPS   OF  ARCHITECTURE 

This  book  began  to  assume  shape  in  Ruskin's  mind  as 
early  as  1846 ;  he  actually  wrote  it  in  the  six  months  be- 
tween November,  1848,  and  April,  1849.  It  is  the  first 
of  five  illustrated  volumes  embodying  the  results  of  seven 
years  devoted  to  the  study  of  the  principles  and  ideals  of 
Gothic  Architecture,  the  other  volumes  being  The  Stones 
of  Venice  and  Examples  of  the  Architecture  of  Venice 
(1851).  In  the  first  edition  of  The  Seven  Lamps  the  plates 
were  not  only  all  drawn  but  also  etched  by  his  own  hand. 
Ruskin  at  a  later  time  wrote  that  the  purpose  of  The 
Seven  Lamps  was  "to  show  that  certain  right  states  of 
temper  and  moral  feeling  were  the  magic  powers  by  which 
all  good  architecture  had  been  produced."  He  is  really 
applying  here  the  same  tests  of  truth  and  sincerity  that 
he  employed  in  Modern  Painters.  Chronologically,  this 
volume  and  the  others  treating  of  architecture  come  be- 
tween the  composition  of  Volumes  II  and  III  of  Modern 
Painters.  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton  writes  that  the 
Seven  Lamps  is  ^'the  first  treatise  in  English  to  teach  the 
real  significance  of  architecture  as  the  most  trustworthy  re- 
cord of  the  life  and  faith  of  nations."  The  following  selec- 
tions form  the  closing  chapters  of  the  volume,  and  have  a 
peculiar  interest  as  anticipating  the  social  and  political  ideas 
which  came  to  colour  all  his  later  work. 

THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY 

Among  the  hours  of  his  life  to  which  the  writer  looks 
back  with  peculiar  gratitude,  as  having  been  marked 
by  more  than  ordinary  fulness  of  joy  or  clearness  of 
teaching,  is  one  passed,  now  some  years  ago,  near  time 
of  sunset,  among  the  broken  masses  of  pine  forest  which 
skirt  the  course  of  the  Ain,  above  the  village  of  Cham- 


THE  LAMP  OF   MEMORY  201 

pagnole,  m  the  Jura.  It  is  a  spot  which  has  all  the 
solemnity,  with  none  of  the  savageness,  of  the  Alps; 
where  there  is  a  sense  of  a  great  power  beginning  to  be 
manifested  in  the  earth,  and  of  a  deep  and  majestic 
concord  in  the  rise  of  the  long  low  lines  of  piny  hills; 
the  first  utterance  of  those  mighty  mountain  sympho- 
nies, soon  to  be  more  loudly  lifted  and  wildly  broken 
along  the  battlements  of  the  Alps.  But  their  strength 
is  as  yet  restrained  ;  and  the  far  reaching  ridges  of  pas- 
toral mountain  succeed  each  other,  like  the  long  and 
sighing  swell  which  moves  over  quiet  waters  from  some 
far  off  stormy  sea.  And  there  is  a  deep  tenderness  per- 
vading that  vast  monotony.  The  destructive  forces 
and  the  stern  expression  of  the  central  ranges  are  alike 
withdrawn.  No  frost-ploughed,  dust-encumbered  paths 
of  ancient  glacier  fret  the  soft  Jura  pastures ;  no  splin- 
tered heaps  of  ruin  break  the  fair  ranks  of  her  forest; 
no  pale,  defiled,  or  furious  rivers  rend  their  rude  and 
changeful  ways  among  her  rocks.  Patiently,  eddy  by 
eddy,  the  clear  green  streams  wind  along  their  well- 
known  beds ;  and  under  the  dark  quietness  of  the  un- 
disturbed pines,  there  spring  up,  year  by  year,  such 
company  of  joyful  flowers  as  I  know  not  the  like  of 
among  all  the  blessings  of  the  earth.  It  was  spring  time, 
too;  and  all  were  coming  forth  in  clusters  crowded  for 
very  love;  there  was  room  enough  for  all,  but  they 
crushed  their  leaves  into  all  manner  of  strange  shapes 
only  to  be  nearer  each  other.  I'here  was  the  wood 
anemone,  star  after  star,  closing  every  now  and  then 
into  nebulae ;  and  there  was  the  oxalis,  troop  by  troop, 
ike  virginal  processions  of  the  Mois  de  Marie, ^  the 
Jark  vertical  clefts  in  the  limestone  choked  up  with 
them  as  with  heavy  snow,  and  touched  with  ivy  on  the 
^  May-day  processions  in  honour  of  the  Virgin. 


202     THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

edges  —  ivy  as  liglit  and  lovely  as  the  vine;  and,  ever 
and  anon,  a  blue  gush  of  violets,  and  cowslip  bells  in 
sunny  places ;  and  in  the  more  open  ground,  the  vetch, 
and  comfrey,  and  mezereon,  and  the  small  sapphire 
buds  of  the  Polygala  Alpina,  and  the  wild  strawberry, 
just  a  blossom  or  two  all  showered  amidst  the  golden 
softness  of  deep,  warm,  amber-coloured  moss.  I  came 
out  presently  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine:  the  solemn 
murmur  of  its  w^aters  rose  suddenly  from  beneath, 
mixed  with  the  singing  of  the  thrushes  among  the  pine 
boughs;  and,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley,  walled 
all  along  as  it  was  by  grey  cliffs  of  limestone,  there 
was  a  hawk  sailing  slowly  off  their  brow,  touching  them 
nearly  with  his  wings,  and  with  the  shadows  of  the 
pines  flickering  upon  his  plumage  from  above;  but 
with  the  fall  of  a  hundred  fathoms  under  his  breast, 
and  the  curling  pools  of  the  green  river  gliding  and 
glittering  dizzily  beneath  him,  their  foam  globes  mov- 
ing with  him  as  he  flew.  It  would  be  difficult  to  con- 
ceive a  scene  less  dependent  upon  any  other  interest 
than  that  of  its  own  secluded  and  serious  beauty ;  but 
the  writer  well  remembers  the  sudden  blankness  and 
chill  which  were  cast  upon  it  when  he  endeavoured,  in 
order  more  strictly  to  arrive  at  the  sources  of  its  im- 
pressiveness,  to  imagine  it,  for  a  moment,  a  scene  in 
some  aboriginal  forest  of  the  New  Continent.  The 
flowers  in  an  instant  lost  their  light,  the  river  its  mu- 
sic ;  the  hills  became  oppressively  desolate ;  a  heaviness 
in  the  boughs  of  the  darkened  forest  showed  how 
much  of  their  former  power  had  been  dependent  upon 
a  life  which  was  not  theirs,  how  much  of  the  glory  of 
the  imperishable,  or  continually  renewed,  creation  is 
reflected  from  things  more  precious  in  their  memories 
than  it,  in  its  renewing.    Those  ever  springing  flowers 


v-.>^ 


>>   THE  TM!iTP  ^F  >TFMORY 


\p^   XgEJ^4M 


V 


203 


and  ever  flowing  streams  had  been  dyed  by  the  deep 
colours  of  human  endurance,  valour,  and  virtue;  and 
the  crests  of  the  sable  hills  that  rose  against  the  even- 
ing sky  received  a  deeper  worship,  because  their  far 
shadows  fell  eastward  over  the  iron  wall  of  Joux,  and 
the  four-square  keep  of  Granson. 

It  is  as  the  centralization    and  protectress  of  this 
sacred  influence,  that  Architecture   is  to  be  regarded 
by  us  with  the  most  serious  thought.   We  may  live  with- 
out  her,   and   worship   without  her,   but  we  cannot 
remember  without   her.    How  cold  is  all  history,  how 
lifeless  all  imagery,  compared  to  that  which  the  living 
nation  writes,  and  the  uncorrupted  marble  bears !  — 
how  many  pages  of  doubtful  record  might  we  not  often  v^ 
spare,  for  a  few  stones  left  one  upon  another !  The  am-  » 
bition  of  the  old  Babel  builders  was  well  directed  for     ' 
this  world :  ^  there  are  but  two  strong  conquerors  of 
the  forgetfulness  of  men.  Poetry  and  Architecture ;  and 
the   latter  in  some   sort  includes  the  former,  and  is 
mightier  in  its  reality :  it  is  well  to  have,  not  only  what  I 
men  have  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands  have ' 
handled,  and  their  strength  wrought,  and  their  eyes 
beheld,  all  the  days  of  their  life.   The  age  of  Homer 
is  surrounded  with  darkness,  his  very  personahty  with 
doubt.   Not  so  that  of  Pericles  :  and  the  day  is  coming    I 
when  we  shall  confess,  that  we  have  learned  more  of 
Greece  out  of  the  crumbled  fragments  of  her  sculpture 
than  even  from  her  sweet  singers  or  soldier  historians. 
And  if  indeed  there  be  any  profit  in  our  knowledge  of 
the  past,  or  any  joy  in  the  thought  of  being  remembered 
hereafter,  which  can  give  strength  to  present  exertion, 
or  patience  to  present  endurance,  there  are  two  duties 
respecting  national  architecture  whose  importance  it 
'  Genesis  xi,  4. 


204    THE   SEVEN   LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

is  impossible  to  overrate :  the  first,  to  render  the  ar- 
chitecture of  the  day,  historical;  and,  the  second,  to 
preserve,  as  the  most  precious  of  inheritances,  that  of 
past  ages. 

It  is  in  the  first  of  these  two  directions  that  Memory 
may  truly  be  said  to  be  the  Sixth  Lamp  of  Architecture ; 
for  it  is  in  becoming  memorial  or  monumental  that  a 
true  perfection  is  attained  by  civil  and  domestic  build- 
ings ;  and  this  partly  as  they  are,  with  such  a  view,  built 
in  a  more  stable  manner,  and  partly  as  their  decora- 
tions are  consequently  animated  by  a  metaphorical  or 
historical  meaning. 

As  regards  domestic  buildings,  there  must  alw^ays 
be  a  certain  limitation  to  views  of  this  kind  in  the  power, 
as  well  as  in  the  hearts,  of  men  ;  still  I  cannot  but  think 
it  an  evil  sign  of  a  people  when  their  houses  are  built 
to  last  for  one  generation  only.  There  is  a  sanctity  in  a 
good  man's  house  which  cannot  be  renewed  in  every 
tenement  that  rises  on  its  ruins  :  and  I  believe  that  good 
men  would  generally  feel  this ;  and  that  having  spent 
their  lives  happily  and  honourably,  they  would  be 
grieved,  at  the  close  of  them,  to  think  that  the  place  of 
their  earthly  abode,  which  had  seen,  and  seemed  almost 
to  sympathize  in,  all  their  honour,  their  gladness,  or 
their  suffering,  —  that  this,  w  ith  all  the  record  it  bare 
of  them,  and  of  all  material  things  that  they  had  loved 
and  ruled  over,  and  set  the  stamp  of  themselves  upon 
—  was  to  be  swept  awa}',  as  soon  as  there  was  room 
made  for  them  in  the  grave;  that  no  respect  was  to  be 
shown  to  it,  no  affection  felt  for  it,  no  good  to  be  drawn 
from  it  by  their  children  ;  that  though  there  was  a  monu- 
ment in  the  church,  there  was  no  w^arm  monument  in 
the  hearth  and  house  to  them ;  that  all  that  they  ever 
treasured  was  despised,  and  the  places  that  had  shel- 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY  205 

tered  and  comforted  them  were  dragged  down  to  the 
dust.  I  say  that  a  good  man  would  fear  this ;  and  that, 
far  more,  a  good  son,  a  noble  descendant,  would  fear 
doing  it  to  his  father's  house.  I  say  that  if  men  lived 
like  men  indeed,  their  houses  would  be  temples  — 
temples  which  we  should  hardly  dare  to  injure,  and  in 
which  it  would  make  us  holy  to  be  permitted  to  live; 
and  there  must  be  a  strange  dissolution  of  natural  affec- 
tion, a  strange  unthankfulness  for  all  that  homes  have 
given  and  parents  taught,  a  strange  consciousness  that 
we  have  been  unfaithful  to  our  fathers'  honour,  or  that 
our  own  lives  are  not  such  as  would  make  our  dwellings 
sacred  to  our  children,  when  each  man  would  fain  build 
to  himself,  and  build  for  the  little  revolution  of  his  own 
life  only.  And  I  look  upon  those  pitiful  concretions  of 
lime  and  clay  which  spring  up,  in  mildewed  forward- 
ness, out  of  the  kneaded  fields  about  our  capital  — 
upon  those  thin,  tottering,  foundationless  shells  of 
splintered  wood  and  imitated  stone  —  upon  those 
gloomy  rows  of  formalized  minuteness,  alike  without 
difference  and  without  fellowship,  as  solitary  as  similar 
—  not  merely  with  the  careless  disgust  of  an  offended 
eye,  not  merely  with  sorrow  for  a  desecrated  landscape, 
but  with  a  painful  foreboding  that  the  roots  of  our 
national  greatness  must  be  deeply  cankered  when  they 
are  thus  loosely  struck  in  their  native  ground ;  that 
those  comfortless  and  unhonoured  dwellings  are  the 
signs  of  a  great  and  spreading  spirit  of  popular  discon- 
tent ;  that  they  mark  the  time  when  every  man's  aim  is 
to  be  in  some  more  elevated  sphere  than  his  natural 
one,  and  every  man's  past  life  is  his  habitual  scorn ; 
when  men  build  in  the  hope  of  leaving  the  places  they 
have  built,  and  live  in  the  hope  of  forgetting  the  years 
that  they  have  lived ;  when  the  comfort,  the  peace,  the 


206      THE  SEVEN   LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

religion  of  home  have  ceased  to  be  felt ;  and  the  crowded 
tenements  of  a  struggling  and  restless  population  differ 
only  from  the  tents  of  the  Arab  or  the  Gipsy  by  their 
less  healthy  openness  to  the  air  of  heaven,  and  less 
happy  choice  of  their  spot  of  earth ;  by  their  sacrifice  of 
liberty  without  the  gain  of  rest,  and  of  stability  without 
the  luxury  of  change. 

This  is  no  slight,  no  consequenceless  evil;  it  is 
ominous,  infectious,  and  fecund  of  other  fault  and 
misfortune.  When  men  do  not  love  their  hearths,  nor 
reverence  their  thresholds,  it  is  a  sign  that  they  have 
dishonoured  both,  and  that  they  have  never  acknow- 
ledged the  true  universality  of  that  Christian  worship 
which  was  indeed  to  supersede  the  idolatry,  but  not 
the  piety,  of  the  pagan.  Our  God  is  a  household  God, 
as  well  as  a  heavenly  one;  He  has  an  altar  in  every 
man's  dwelling;  let  men  look  to  it  when  they  rend  it 
lightly  and  pour  out  its  ashes.  It  is  not  a  question  of 
mere  ocular  delight,  it  is  no  question  of  intellectual 
pride,  or  of  cultivated  and  critical  fancy,  how,  and  with 
what  aspect  of  durability  and  of  completeness,  the 
domestic  buildings  of  a  nation  shall  be  raised.  It  is 
one  of  those  moral  duties,  not  with  more  impunity  to  be 
neglected  because  the  perception  of  them  depends  on  a 
finely  toned  and  balanced  conscientiousness,  to  build 
our  dwellings  with  care,  and  patience,  and  fondness, 
and  diligent  completion,  and  with  a  view  to  their  dura- 
tion at  least  for  such  a  period  as,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  national  revolutions,  might  be  supposed  likely  to 
extend  to  the  entire  alteration  of  the  direction  of  local 
interests.  This  at  the  least ;  but  it  would  be  better  if,  in 
every  possible  instance,  men  built  their  own  houses  on  a 
scale  commensurate  rather  with  their  condition  at  the 
commencement,  than  their  attainments  at  the  termina- 


THE  LAMP  OF   MEMORY  207 

iion,  of  their  worldly  career;  and  built  them  to  stand 
as  long  as  human  work  at  its  strongest  can  be  hoped 
to  stand ;  recording  to  their  children  what  they  had 
been,  and  from  what,  if  so  it  had  been  permitted  them, 
they  had  risen.  And  when  houses  are  thus  built,  we  may 
have  that  true  domestic  architecture,  the  beginning  of 
all  other,  which  does  not  disdain  to  treat  with  respect 
and  thoughtfulness  the  small  habitation  as  well  as  the 
large,  and  which  invests  with  the  dignity  of  contented 
manhood  the  narrowness  of  worldly  circumstance. 

I  look  to  this  spirit  of  honourable,  proud,  peaceful 
self-possession,  this  abiding  wisdom  of  contented  life, 
as  probably  one  of  the  chief  sources  of  great  intellectual 
power  in  all  ages,  and  beyond  dispute  as  the  very  primal 
source  of  the  great  architecture  of  old  Italy  and  France. 
To  this  day,  the  interest  of  their  fairest  cities  depends, 
not  on  the  isolated  richness  of  palaces,  but  on  the  cher- 
ished and  exquisite  decoration  of  even  the  smallest 
tenements  of  their  proud  periods.  The  most  elaborate 
piece  of  architecture  in  Venice  is  a  small  house  at  the 
head  of  the  Grand  Canal,  consisting  of  a  ground  floor 
with  two  storeys  above,  three  windows  in  the  first,  and 
two  in  the  second.  Many  of  the  most  exquisite  build- 
ings are  on  the  narrower  canals,  and  of  no  larger  di- 
mensions. One  of  the  most  interesting  pieces  of  fif- 
teenth-century architecture  in  North  Italy,  is  a  small 
house  in  a  back  street,  behind  the  market-place  of 
Vicenza;  it  bears  date  1481,  and  the  motto,  //.  ricst. 
rose.  sans,  epine  ;  it  has  also  only  a  ground  floor  and 
two  storeys,  with  three  windows  in  each,  separated  by 
rich  flower-work,  and  with  balconies,  supported,  the 
central  one  by  an  eagle  with  open  wings,  the  lateral 
ones  by  winged  griffins  standing  on  cornucopi^e.  The 
ide&  that  a  house  must  be  large  in  order  to  be  well  built, 


208    THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

is  altogether  of  modcTii  growth,  and  is  parallel  with  the 
idea,  that  no  picture  can  be  historical,  except  of  a  size 
admitting  figures  larger  than  life. 

I  would  have,  then,  our  ordinary  dwelling-houses 
built  to  last,  and  built  to  be  lovely;  as  rich  and  full  of 
pleasantness  as  may  be,  within  and  without;  with  what 
degree  of  likeness  to  each  other  in  style  and  manner, 
I  will  say  presently,  under  another  head ;  ^  but,  at  all 
events,  with  such  differences  as  might  suit  and  express 
each  man's  character  and  occupation,  and  partly  his 
history.  This  right  over  the  house,  I  conceive,  belongs 
to  its  first  builder,  and  is  to  be  respected  by  his  chil- 
dren; and  it  would  be  well  that  blank  stones  should  be 
left  in  places,  to  be  inscribed  w^ith  a  summary  of  his 
life  and  of  its  experience,  raising  thus  the  habitation 
into  a  kind  of  monument,  and  developing,  into  more 
systematic  instructiveness,  that  good  custom  which 
was  of  old  universal,  and  which  still  remains  among 
some  of  the  Swiss  and  Germans,  of  acknowledging  the 
grace  of  God's  permission  to  build  and  possess  a  quiet 
resting-place,  in  such  sweet  w^ords  as  may  w^ell  close 
our  speaking  of  these  things.  I  have  taken  them  from 
the  front  of  a  cottage  lately  built  among  the  green  pas- 
tures which  descend  from  the  village  of  Grindehvald 
to  the  lower  glacier :  — 

Mit  herzlichem  Vertrauen 
Hat  Johannes  Mooter  und  Maria  Rubi 
Dieses  Haus  bauen  lassen. 
Der  liebe  Gott  woll  uns  bewahren 
Vor  allem  Ungluck  und  Gefahren, 
•    Und  es  in  Segen  lassen  stehn 

Auf  der  Reise  durch  diese  Jammerzeit 
Nach  dem  himmlischen  Paradiese, 
Wo  alle  Frommen  wohnen, 
1  See  pp.  225  ff . 


THE  LAMP   OF  MEMORY  209 

Da  wird  Gott  sie  belohnen 
Mit  der  Friedenskrone 
Zu  alle  Ewigkeit.^ 

In  public  buildings  the  historical  purpose  should  be 
still  more  definite.  It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  Gothic 
architecture,  —  I  use  the  word  Gothic  in  the  most  ex- 
tended sense  as  broadly  opposed  to  classical,  —  that  it 
admits  of  a  richness  of  record  altogether  unlimited. 
Its  minute  and  multitudinous  sculptural  decorations 
afford  means  of  expressing,  either  symbolically  or  lit- 
erally, all  that  need  be  known  of  national  feeling  or 
achievement.  More  decoration  will,  indeed,  be  usually 
required  than  can  take  so  elevated  a  character;  and 
much,  even  in  the  most  thoughtful  periods,  has  been 
left  to  the  freedom  of  fancy,  or  suffered  to  consist  of 
mere  repetitions  of  some  national  bearing  or  symbol. 
It  is,  however,  generally  unwise,  even  in  mere  surface 
ornament,  to  surrender  the  power  and  privilege  of 
variety  which  the  spirit  of  Gothic  architecture  admits ; 
much  more  in  important  features  —  capitals  of  col- 
umns or  bosses,  and  string-courses,  as  of  course  in 
all  confessed  bas-reliefs.  Better  the  rudest  work  that 
tells  a  story  or  records  a  fact,  than  the  richest  without 
meaning.  There  should  not  be  a  single  ornament  put 
upon  great  civic  buildings,  without  some  intellectual 
intention.  Actual  representation  of  history  has  in  mod- 
ern times  been  checked  by  a  difficulty,  mean  indeed, 
but  steadfast;  that  of  unmanageable  costume:  never- 
theless, by  a  sufficiently  bold  imaginative  treatment, 
and  frank  use  of  symbols,  all  such  obstacles  may  be 

*  In  heartfelt  trust  Johannes  Mooter  and  Maria  Rubi  had  this 
house  erected.  ISIay  dear  God  shield  us  from  all  perils  and  misfor- 
tune; and  let  His  blessing  rest  upon  it  during  the  journey  through 
this  wretched  life  up  to  heavenly  Paradise  where  the  pious  dwell. 
There  will  God  reward  them  with  the  Crown  of  Peace  to  all  eternity. 


210    THE  SEVEN  LAMPS   OF  ARCHITECTURE 

vanquished;  not  perhaps  in  the  degree  necessary  to 
produce  sculpture  in  itself  satisfactory,  but  at  all  events 
so  as  to  enable  it  to  become  a  grand  and  expressive  ele- 
ment of  architectural  composition.  Take,  for  example, 
the  management  of  the  capitals  of  the  ducal  palace  at 
Venice.  History,  as  such,  was  indeed  entrusted  to  the 
painters  of  its  interior,  but  every  capital  of  its  arcades 
was  filled  with  meaning.  The  large  one,  the  corner 
stone  of  the  whole,  next  the  entrance,  was  devoted  to 
the  symbolization  of  Abstract  Justice;  above  it  is  a 
sculpture  of  the  Judgment  of  Solomon,  remarkable  for 
a  beautiful  subjection  in  its  treatment  to  its  decorative 
purpose.  The  figures,  if  the  subject  had  been  entirely 
composed  of  them,  would  have  awkwardly  interrupted 
the  line  of  the  angle,  and  diminished  its  apparent 
strength;  and  therefore  in  the  midst  of  them,  entirely 
without  relation  to  them,  and  indeed  actually  between 
the  executioner  and  interceding  mother,  there  rises  the 
ribbed  trunk  of  a  massy  tree,  which  supports  and  con- 
tinues the  shaft  of  the  angle,  and  whose  leaves  above 
overshadow  and  enrich  the  whole.  The  capital  below 
bears  among  its  leafage  a  throned  figure  of  Justice, 
Trajan  doing  justice  to  the  widow,  Aristotle  "  che  die 
legge,"  and  one  or  two  other  subjects  now  unintelligible 
from  decay.  The  capitals  next  in  order  represent  the 
virtues  and  vices  in  succession,  as  preservative  or  de- 
structive of  national  peace  and  power,  concluding  with 
Faith,  with  the  inscription  "  Fides  optima  in  Deo  est." 
A  figure  is  seen  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  capital,  wor- 
shipping the  sun.  After  these,  one  or  two  capitals  are 
fancifully  decorated  with  birds,  and  then  come  a  series 
representing,  first  the  various  fruits,  then  the  national 
costumes,  and  then  the  animals  of  the  various  countries 
subject  to  Venetian  rule. 


THE  LAMP   OF  MEMORY  211. 

Now,  not  to  speak  of  any  more  important  public 
building,  let  us  imagine  our  own  India  House  adorned 
in  this  way,  by  historical  or  symbolical  sculpture :  mas- 
sively built  in  the  first  place;  then  chased  with  bas- 
reliefs  of  our  Indian  battles,  and  fretted  with  carvings 
of  Oriental  foliage,  or  inlaid  with  Oriental  stones ;  and 
the  more  important  members  of  its  decoration  com- 
posed of  groups  of  Indian  life  and  landscape,  and  pro- 
minently expressing  the  phantasms  of  Hindoo  worship 
in  their  subjection  to  the  Cross.  Would  not  one  such 
work  be  better  than  a  thousand  histories  ?  If,  however, 
we  have  not  the  invention  necessary  for  such  efforts, 
or  if,  which  is  probably  one  of  the  most  noble  excuses 
we  can  offer  for  our  deficiency  in  such  matters,  we  have 
less  pleasure  in  talking  about  ourselves,  even  in  marble, 
than  the  Continental  nations,  at  least  we  have  no  ex- 
cuse for  any  want  of  care  in  the  points  which  insure  the 
building's  endurance.  And  as  this  question  is  one  of 
great  interest  in  its  relations  to  the  choice  of  various 
modes  of  decoration,  it  will  be  necessary  to  enter  into 
it  at  some  length. 

The  benevolent  regards  and  purposes  of  men  in 
masses  seldom  can  be  supposed  to  extend  beyond  their 
own  generation.  They  may  look  to  posterity  as  an  audi- 
ence, may  hope  for  its  attention,  and  labour  for  its 
praise  :  they  may  trust  to  its  recognition  of  unacknow- 
ledged merit,  and  demand  its  justice  for  contemporary 
wrong.  But  all  this  is  mere  selfishness,  and  does  not 
involve  the  slightest  regard  to,  or  consideration  of,  the 
interest  of  those  by  whose  numbers  we  would  fain  swell 
the  circle  of  our  flatterers,  and  by  whose  authority  we 
would  gladly  support  our  presently  disputed  claims. 
The  idea  of  self-denial  for  the  sake  of  posterity,  of  prac- 
tising present  economy  for  the  sake  of  debtors  yet  un- 


212      THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECrURE 

born,  of  planting  forests  that  our  descendants  may  live 
under  their  shade,  or  of  raising  cities  for  future  nations 
to  inhabit,  never,  I  suppose,  efficiently  takes  place 
among  publicly  recognized  motives  of  exertion.  Yet 
these  are  not  the  less  our  duties;  nor  is  our  part  fitly 
sustained  upon  the  earth,  unless  the  range  of  our  in- 
tended and  deliberate  usefulness  include,  not  only  the 
companions  but  the  successors,  of  our  pilgrimage.  God 
has  lent  us  the  earth  for  our  life ;  it  is  a  great  entail.  It 
belongs  as  much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  us,  and 
whose  names  are  already  written  in  the  book  of  crea- 
tion, as  to  us;  and  we  have  no  right,  by  anything  that 
we  do  or  neglect,  to  involve  them  in  unnecessary  penal- 
ties, or  deprive  them  of  benefits  which  it  was  in  our 
power  to  bequeath.  And  this  the  more,  because  it  is  one 
of  the  appointed  conditions  of  the  labour  of  men  that, 
in  proportion  to  the  time  between  the  seed-sowing  and 
the  harvest,  is  the  fulness  of  the  fruit ;  and  that  gener- 
ally, therefore,  the  farther  off  we  place  our  aim,  and  the 
less  we  desire  to  be  ourselves  the  witnesses  of  what  we 
have  laboured  for,  the  more  wide  and  rich  w^ill  be  the 
measure  of  our  success.  Men  cannot  benefit  those  that 
are  with  them  as  they  can  benefit  those  w^ho  come  after 
them ;  and  of  all  the  pulpits  from  which  human  voice  is 
ever  sent  forth,  there  is  none  from  which  it  reaches  so 
far  as  from  the  grave. 

Nor  is  there,  indeed,  any  present  loss,  in  such  respect 
for  futurity.  Every  human  action  gains  in  honour,  in 
grace,  in  all  true  magnificence,  by  its  regard  to  things 
that  are  to  come.  It  is  the  far  sight,  the  quiet  and  con- 
fident patience,  that,  above  all  other  attributes,  sepa- 
rate man  from  man,  and  near  him  to  his  Maker;  and 
there  is  no  action  nor  art,  whose  majesty  we  may  not 
measure  by  this  test.  Therefore,  when  we  build,  let  us 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY  213 

think  that  we  build  for  ever.  Let  it  not  be  for  present 
delight,  nor  for  present  use  alone ;  let  it  be  such  work 
as  our  descendants  will  thank  us  for,  and  let  us  think, 
as  we  lay  stone  on  stone,  that  a  time  is  to  come  when 
those  stones  will  be  held  sacred  because  our  hands  have 
touched  them,  and  that  men  will  say  as  they  look  upon 
the  labour  and  wrought  substance  of  them,  "See!  this 
our  fathers  did  for  us."  For,  indeed,  the  greatest  glory 
of  a  building  is  not  in  its  stones,  nor  in  its  gold.  Its 
glory  is  in  its  Age,  and  in  that  deep  sense  of  voiceful- 
ness,  of  stern  watching,  of  mysterious  sympathy,  nay, 
even  of  approval  or  condemnation,  which  we  feel  in  1/ 
walls  that  have  long  been  washed  by  the  passing  waves 
of  humanity.  It  is  in  their  lasting  witness  against  men, 
in  their  quiet  contrast  with  the  transitional  character  ^ 
of  all  things,  in  the  strength  which,  through  the  lapse  of 
seasons  and  times,  and  the  decline  and  birth  of  dynas- 
ties, and  the  changing  of  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  of 
the  limits  of  the  sea,  maintains  its  sculptured  shapeliness 
for  a  time  insuperable,  connects  forgotten  and  follow- 
ing ages  with  each  other,  and  half  constitutes  the  iden- 
tity, as  it  concentrates  the  sympathy,  of  nations :  it  is 
in  that  golden  stain  of  time,  that  we  are  to  look  for  the 
real  light,  and  colour,  and  preciousness  of  architecture; 
and  it  is  not  until  a  building  has  assumed  this  char- 
acter, till  it  has  been  entrusted  with  the  fame,  and 
hallowed  by  the  deeds  of  men,  till  its  walls  have  been 
witnesses  of  suffering,  and  its  pillars  rise  out  of  the 
shadows  of  death,  that  its  existence,  more  lasting 
as  it  is  than  that  of  the  natural  objects  of  the  world 
around  it,  can  be  gifted  with  even  so  much  as  these 
possess,  of  language  and  of  life. 

For  that  period,  then,  we  must  build;  not,  indeed, 
refusing  to  ourselves  the  delight  of  present  completion, 


214      THE  SEVEN   LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

nor  hesitating  to  follow  such  portions  of  character  as 
may  depend  upon  delicacy  of  execution  to  the  highest 
perfection  of  which  they  are  capable,  even  although 
we  may  know  that  in  the  course  of  years  such  details 
must  perish ;  but  taking  care  that  for  work  of  this  kind 
we  sacrifice  no  enduring  quality,  and  that  the  building 
shall  not  depend  for  its  impressiveness  upon  anything 
that  is  perishable.  This  would,  indeed,  be  the  law  of 
good  composition  under  any  circumstances,  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  lai^er  masses  being  always  a  matter 
of  greater  importance  than  the  treatment  of  the  smaller ; 
but  in  architecture  there  is  much  in  that  very  treatment 
which  is  skilful  or  otherwise  in  proportion  to  its  just  re- 
gard to  the  probable  effects  of  time  :  and  (w:hich  is  still 
more  to  be  considered)  there  is  a  beauty  in  those  effects 
themselves,  which  nothing  else  can  replace,  and  which 
it  is  our  wisdom  to  consult  and  to  desire.  For  though, 
hitherto,  we  have  been  speaking  of  the  sentiment  of 
age  only,  there  is  an  actual  beauty  in  the  marks  of  it, 
such  and  so  great  as  to  have  become  not  unfrequently 
the  subject  of  especial  choice  among  certain  schools  of 
art,  and  to  have  impressed  upon  those  schools  the  char- 
acter usually  and  loosely  expressed  by  the  term  "pic- 
turesque." ... 

Now,  to  return  to  our  immediate  subject,  it  so  hap- 
pens that,  in  architecture,  the  superinduced  and  acci- 
dental beauty  is  most  commonly' inconsistent  with  the 
preservation  of  original  character,  and  the  picturesque 
is  therefore  sought  in  ruin,  and  supposed  to  consist  in 
decay.  Whereas,  even  when  so  sought,  it  consists  in 
the  mere  sublimity  of  the  rents,  or  fractures,  or  stains, 
or  vegetation,  which  assimilate  the  architecture  with 
the  work  of  Nature,  and  bestow  upon  it  those  circum- 
stances of  colour  and  form  which  are  universally  be- 


THE   LAMP   OF  MEMORY  215 

loved  by  the  eye  of  man.  So  far  as  this  is  done,  to  the 
extinction  of  the  true  characters  of  the  architecture,  it 
is  picturesque,  and  the  artist  who  looks  to  the  stem  of 
the  ivy  instead  of  the  shaft  of  the  pillar,  is  carrying  out 
in  more  daring  freedom  the  debased  sculptor's  choice 
of  the  hair  instead  of  the  countenance.  But  so  far  as  it 
can  be  rendered  consistent  with  the  inherent  character, 
the  picturesque  or  extraneous  sublimity  of  architecture 
has  just  this  of  nobler  function  in  it  than  that  of  any 
other  object  whatsoever,  that  it  is  an  exponent  of  age,  of 
that  in  which,  as  has  been  said,  the  greatest  glory  of  the 
building  consists;  and,  therefore,  the  external  signs  of 
this  glory,  having  powder  and  purpose  greater  than  any 
belonging  to  their  mere  sensible  beauty,  may  be  consid- 
ered as  taking  rank  among  pure  and  essential  charac- 
ters; so  essential  to  my  mind,  that  I  think  a  building 
cannot  be  considered  as  in  its  prime  until  four  or  five 
centuries  have  passed  over  it ;  and  that  the  entire  choice 
and  arrangement  of  its  details  should  have  reference  to' 
their  appearance  after  that  period,  so  that  none  should 
be  admitted  which  would  suffer  material  injury  either 
by  the  weather-staining,  or  the  mechanical  degradation 
which  the  lapse  of  such  a  period  would  necessitate. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  enter  into  any  of  the  questions 
which  the  appHcation  of  this  principle  involves.  They 
are  of  too  great  interest  and  complexity  to  be  even 
touched  upon  within  my  present  limits,  but  this  is 
broadly  to  be  noticed,  that  those  styles  of  architecture 
which  are  picturesque  in  the  sense  above  explained 
with  respect  to  sculpture,  that  is  to  say,  whose  decora- 
tion depends  on  the  arrangement  of  points  of  shade 
rather  than  on  purity  of  outline,  do  not  suffer,  but  com- 
monly gain  in  richness  of  effect  when  their  details  are 
partly  worn  away;  hence  such  styles,  pre-eminently 


If 


216     THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

that  of  French  Gothic,  should  always  be  adopted  when 
the  materials  to  be  employed  are  liable  to  degrada- 
tion, as  brick,  sandstone,  or  soft  limestone ;  and  styles  in 
any  degree  dependent  on  purity  of  line,  as  the  Italian 
Gothic,  must  be  practised  altogether  in  hard  and  un- 
decomposing  materials,  granite,  serpentine,  or  crystal- 
line marbles.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  nature 
of  the  accessible  materials  influenced  the  formation  of 
both  styles;  and  it  should  still  more  authoritatively 
d'-'termine  our  choice  of  either. 

It  does  not  belong  to  my  present  plan  to  consider  at 
fength  the  second  head  of  duty  of  which  I  have  above 
!ppoken ;  the  preservation  of  the  architecture  we  possess : 
r)ut  a  few  words  may  be  forgiven,  as  especially  neces- 
ijary  in  modern  times.  Neither  by  the  public,  nor  by 
^.hose  who  have  the  care  of  public  monuments,  is  the 
true  meanino;  of  the  word  restoration  understood.  It 
means  the  most  total  destruction  which  a  building  can 
suffer :  a  destruction  out  of  which  no  remnants  can  be 
gathered :  a  destruction  accompanied  with  false  de- 
scription of  the  thing  destroyed.  Do  not  let  us  deceive 
ourselves  in  this  important  matter;  it  is  impossible,  as 
impossible  as  to  raise  the  dead,  to  restore  anything  that 
has  ever  been  great  or  beautiful  in  architecture.  That 
which  I  have  above  insisted  upon  as  the  life  of  the 
whole,  that  spirit  which  is  given  only  by  the  hand  and 
eye  of  the  workman,  never  can  be  recalled.  Another 
spirit  may  be  given  by  another  time,  and  it  is  then  a 
new  building;  but  the  spirit  of  the  dead  workman  can- 
not be  summoned  up,  and  commanded  to  direct  other 
hands,  and  other  thoughts.  And  as  for  direct  and 
simple  copying,  it  is  palpably  impossible.  What  copy- 
ing can  there  be  of  surfaces  that  have  been  worn  half 
an  inch  down  ?   The  whole  finish  of  the  work  was  in 


THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY  217 

the  half  inch  that  is  gone ;  if  you  attempt  to  restore  that 
finish,  you  do  it  conjecturally ;  if  you  copy  what  is  loft, 
granting  fidelity  to  be  possible  (and  what  care,  or  watch- 
fulness, or  cost  can  secure  it,)  how  is  the  new  work 
better  than  the  old  ?  There  was  yet  in  the  old  some  life, 
some  mysterious  suggestion  of  what  it  had  been,  and  of 
what  it  had  lost;  some  sweetness  in  the  gentle  lines 
which  rain  and  sun  had  wrought.  There  can  be  none 
in  the  brute  hardness  of  the  new  carving.  Look  at  the 
animals  which  I  have  given  in  Plate  XIV.,  as  an  in- 
stance of  living  work,  and  suppose  the  markings  of  the 
scales  and  hair  once  worn  away,  or  the  wrinkles  of  the 
brows,  and  who  shall  ever  restore  them  If  The  first  step 
to  restoration,  (I  have  seen  it,  and  that  again  and  again 
—  seen  it  on  the  Baptistery  of  Pisa,  seen  it  on  the  Casa 
d'  Oro  at  Venice,  seen  it  on  the  Cathedral  of  Lisieux,) 
is  to  dash  the  old  work  to  pieces;  the  second  is  usually 
to  put  up  the  cheapest  and  basest  imitation  which  can 
escape  detection,  but  in  all  cases,  however  careful,  and 
however  laboured,  an  imitation  still,  a  cold  model  of 
such  parts  as  can  be  modelled,  with  conjectural  supple- 
ments ;  and  my  experience  has  as  yet  furnished  me  with 
only  one  instance,  that  of  the  Palais  de  Justice  at  Rouen, 
in  which  even  this,  the  utmost  degree  of  fidelity  which 
is  possible,  has  been  attained,  or  even  attempted.^ 

Do  not  let  us  talk  then  of  restoration.  The  thing  is  a 
Lie  from  beginning  to  end.  You  may  make  a  model 
of  a  building  as  you  may  of  a  corpse,  and  your  model 

^  Baptistery  of  Pisa,  circular,  of  marble,  with  dome  two  hundred 
feet  hif^h,  embellished  with  numerous  columns,  is  a  notable  work 
of  the  twelfth  century.  The  pulpit  is  a  masterpiece  of  Nicola  Pisano. 
Casa  d'  Oro  at  Venice  is  noted  for  its  elegance.  It  was  built  in  the 
fourteenth  century.  The  Cathedral  of  Lisieux  dates  chiefly  from  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  and  contains  many  works  of  art. 
The  Palais  de  Justice  is  of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  was  built  for 
the  Parliament  of  the  Province. 


218      THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

may  have  the  shoU  of  the  old  walls  within  it  as  your 
cast  might  have  the  skeleton,  with  what  advantage  I 
neither  see  nor  care :  but  the  old  building  is  destroyed, 
and  that  more  totally  and  mercilessly  than  if  it  had 
sunk  into  a  heap  of  dust,  or  melted  into  a  mass  of  clay; 
more  has  been  gleaned  out  of  desolated  Nineveh  than 
ever  will  be  out  of  re-built  Milan.  But,  it  is  said,  there 
may  come  a  necessity  for  restoration !  Granted.  Look 
the  necessity  full  in  the  face,  and  understand  it  on  its 
own  terms.  It  is  a  necessity  for  destruction.  Accept  it 
as  such,  pull  the  building  down,  throw  its  stones  into 
neglected  corners,  make  ballast  of  them,  or  mortar,  if 
you  will ;  but  do  it  honestly,  and  do  not  set  up  a  Lie  in 
their  place.  And  look  that  necessity  in  the  face  before  it 
comes,  and  you  may  prevent  it.  The  principle  of  mod- 
ern times,  (a  principle  which,  I  believe,  at  least  in 
France,  to  be  systematically  acted  on  by  the  masons,  in 
order  to  find  themselves  work,  as  the  abbey  of  St.  Ouen 
was  pulled  down  by  the  magistrates  of  the  town  by 
way  of  giving  work  to  some  vagrants,)  is  to  neglect 
buildings  first,  and  restore  them  afterwards.  Take 
proper  care  of  your  monuments,  and  you  will  not  need 
to  restore  them.  A  few  sheets  of  lead  put  in  time  upon 
the  roof,  a  few  dead  leaves  and  sticks  swept  in  time  out 
of  a  water-course,  will  save  both  roof  and  walls  from 
ruin.  Watch  an  old  building  with  an  anxious  care; 
guard  it  as  best  you  may,  and  at  any  cost,  from  every 
influence  of  dilapidation.  Count  its  stones  as  you 
would  jewels  of  a  crown ;  set  watches  about  it  as  if  at 
the  gates  of  a  besieged  city ;  bind  it  together  with  iron 
where  it  loosens ;  stay  it  with  timber  where  it  declines ; 
do  not  care  about  the  unsightliness  of  the  aid :  better 
a  crutch  than  a  lost  limb;  and  do  this  tenderly,  and 
reverently,  and  continually,  and  many  a  generation 


THE  LAMP   OF  MEMORY  219 

will  still  be  born  and  pass  away  beneath  its  shadow. 
Its  evil  day  must  come  at  last ;  but  let  it  come  declaredly 
and  openly,  and  let  no  dishonouring  and  false  substi- 
tute deprive  it  of  the  funeral  offices  of  memory. 

Of  more  wanton  or  ignorant  ravage  it  is  vain  to 
speak ;  my  words  will  not  reach  those  who  commit  them, 
and  yet,  be  it  heard  or  not,  1  must  not  leave  the  truth 
unstated,  that  it  is  again  no  question  of  expediency  or 
feeling  whether  we  shall  preserve  the  buildings  of  past 
times  or  not.  We  have  no  right  whatever  to  touch  them. 
They  are  not  ours.  They  belong  partly  to  those  who 
built  them,  and  partly  to  all  the  generations  of  man- 
kind who  are  to  follow  us.  The  dead  have  still  their 
right  in  them  :  that  which  they  laboured  for,  the  praise 
of  achievement  or  the  expression  of  religious  feeling,  or  ' 
whatsoever  else  it  might  be  which  in  those  buildings 
they  intended  to  be  permanent,  we  have  no  right  to 
obliterate.  What  we  have  ourselves  built,  we  are  at 
liberty  to  throw  down ;  but  what  other  men  gave  their 
strength  and  wealth  and  life  to  accomplish,  their  right 
over  does  not  pass  away  with  their  death;  still  less  is 
the  right  to  the  use  of  what  they  have  left  vested  in  us 
only.  It  belongs  to  all  their  successors.  It  may  here- 
after be  a  subject  of  sorrow,  or  a  cause  of  injury,  to 
millions,  that  we  have  consulted  our  present  conven- 
ience by  casting  down  such  buildings  as  we  choose  to 
dispense  with.  That  sorrow,  that  loss,  we  have  no 
right  to  inflict.  Did  the  cathedral  of  Avranches  ^  be- 
long to  the  mob  who  destroyed  it,  any  more  than  it  did 
to  us,  who  walk  in  sorrow  to  and  fro  over  its  founda- 
tion ?  Neither  does  any  building  whatever  belong  to 
those  mobs  who  do  violence  to  it.  For  a  mob  it  is,  and 

^  This  cathedral,  destroyed  in  1799,  was  one  of  the  most  beauti' 
ful  in  all  Normandy. 


/ 


220    THE  SEVEN   LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

must  be  always;  it  matters  not  whether  enraged,  or  in 
dehherate  folly;  whether  countless,  or  sitting  in  com- 
mittees; the  people  who  destroy  anything  causelessly 
are  a  mob,  and  Architecture  is  always  destroyed  cause- 
lessly. A  fair  building  is  necessarily  worth  the  ground 
it  stands  upon,  and  will  be  so  until  Central  Africa  and 
America  shall  have  become  as  populous  as  Middlesex : 
nor  is  any  cause  whatever  valid  as  a  ground  for  its  de- 
struction. If  ever  valid,  certainly  not  now,  when  the 
place  both  of  the  past  and  future  is  too  much  usurped 
in  our  minds  by  the  restless  and  discontented  present. 
The  very  quietness  of  nature  is  gradually  withdrawn 
from  us ;  thousands  w^ho  once  in  their  necessarily  pro- 
longed travel  were  subjected  to  an  influence,  from  the 
silent  sky  and  slumbering  fields,  more  effectual  than 
known  or  confessed,  now  bear  with  them  even  there  the 
ceaseless  fever  of  their  life;  and  along  the  iron  veins 
that  traverse  the  frame  of  our  country,  beat  and  flow 
the  fiery  pulses  of  its  exertion,  hotter  and  faster  every 
hour.  All  vitality  is  concentrated  through  those  throb- 
bing arteries  into  the  central  cities;  the  country  is 
passed  over  like  a  green  sea  by  narrow^  bridges,  and  we 
are  thrown  back  in  continually  closer  crowds  upon  the 
city  gates.  The  only  influence  which  can  in  any  wise 
there  take  the  place  of  that  of  the  woods  and  fields,  is 
the  power  of  ancient  Architecture.  Do  not  part  w^ith  it 
for  the  sake  of  the  formal  square,  or  of  the  fenced  and 
planted  walk,  nor  of  the  goodly  street  nor  opened  quay. 
The  pride  of  a  city  is  not  in  these.  Leave  them  to  the 
crowd;  but  femember  that  there  will  surely  be  some 
within  the  circuit  of  the  disquieted  walls  who  would 
ask  for  some  other  spots  than  these  wherein  to  walk; 
for  some  other  forms  to  meet  their  sight  familiarly :  like 
him  *  who  sat  so  often  where  the  sun  struck  from  the 
^  Dante. 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE  221 

west  to  watch  the  lines  of  the  dome  of  Florence  drawn 
on  the  deep  sky,  or  like  those,  his  Hosts,  who  could 
bear  daily  to  behold,  from  their  palace  chambers,  the 
places  where  their  fathers  lay  at  rest,  at  the  meeting  of 
the  dark  streets  of  Verona. 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE 

It  has  been  my  endeavour  to  show  in  the  preceding 
pages  how  every  form  of  noble  architecture  is  in  some 
sort  the  embodiment  of  the  Polity,  Life,  History,  and 
Religious  Faith  of  nations.  Once  or  twice  in  doing 
this,  I  have  named  a  principle  to  which  I  would  now 
assign  a  definite  place  among  those  which  direct  that 
embodiment;  the  last  place,  not  only  as  that  to  which 
its  own  humility  would  incline,  but  rather  as  belonging 
to  it  in  the  aspect  of  the  crowning  grace  of  all  the  rest; 
that  principle,  I  mean,  to  which  Polity  owes  its  stability. 
Life  its  happiness.  Faith  its  acceptance.  Creation  its 
continuance,  —  Obedience. 

Nor  is  it  the  least  among  the  sources  of  more  serious 
satisfaction  which  I  have  found  in  the  pursuit  of  a  sub- 
ject that  at  first  appeared  to  bear  but  slightly  on  the 
grave  interests  of  mankind,  that  the  conditions  of 
material  perfection  which  it  leads  me  in  conclusion  to 
consider,  furnish  a  strange  proof  how  false  is  the  con- 
ception, how  frantic  the  pursuit,  of  that  treacherous 
phantom  which  men  call  Liberty :  most  treacherous, " 
indeed,  of  all  phantoms;  for  the  feeblest  ray  of  reason 
might  surely  show  us,  that  not  only  its  attainment,  but 
its  being,  was  impossible.  There  is  no  such  thing  in 
the  universe.  There  can  never  be.  The  stars  have  it 
not;  the  earth  has  it  not;  the  sea  has  it  not;  and  we 


222     THE  SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

men  have  the  mockery  and  semblance  of  it  only  for  our 
heaviest  punishment. 

In  one  of  the  noblest  poems  ^  for  its  imagery  and  its 
music  belonging  to  the  recent  school  of  our  literature, 
the  writer  has  soug4it  in  the  aspect  of  inanimate  nature 
the  expression  of  that  Liberty  which,  having  once 
loved,  he  had  seen  among  men  in  its  true  dyes  of  dark- 
ness. But  with  what  strange  fallacy  of  interpretation ! 
since  in  one  noble  line  of  his  invocation  he  has  contra- 
dicted the  assumptions  of  the  rest,  and  acknowledged 
the  presence  of  a  subjection,  surely  not  less  severe  be- 
cause eternal.  How  could  he  otherwise.'*  since  if  there 
be  any  one  principle  more  widely  than  another  con- 
fessed by  every  utterance,  or  more  sternly  than  another 
imprinted  on  every  atom,  of  the  visible  creation,  that 
principle  is  not  Liberty,  but  Law. 

The  enthusiast  would  reply  that  by  Liberty  he  meant 
the  Law  of  Liberty.  Then  why  use  the  single  and  mis- 
understood word  ?  If  by  liberty  you  mean  chastise- 
ment of  the  passions,  discipline  of  the  intellect,  sub- 
jection of  the  will ;  if  you  mean  the  fear  of  inflicting,  the 
shame  of  committing,  a  wrong;  if  you  mean  respect 
for  all  who  are  in  authority,  and  consideration  for  all 
who  are  in  dependence ;  veneration  for  the  good,  mercy 
to  the  evil,  sympathy  with  the  weak;  if  3'ou  mean 
watchfulness  over  all  thoughts,  temperance  in  all 
pleasures,  and  perseverance  in  all  toils;  if  you  mean, 
in  a  word,  that  Service  which  is  defined  in  the  liturgy 
of  the  English  church  to  be  perfect  Freedom,  why  do 
you  name  this  by  the  same  word  by  which  the  luxurious 
mean  license,  and  the  reckless  mean  change;  by 
which  the  rogue  means  rapine,  and  the  fool,  equality; 
by  which  the  proud  mean  anarchy,  and  the  malignant 
*  Coleridge's  Ode  to  France. 


THE   LAMP   OF   OBEDIENCE  223 

mean  violence  ?  Call  it  by  any  name  rather  than  this, 
but  its  best  and  truest,  is  Obedience.  Obedience  is, 
indeed,  founded  on  a  kind  of  freedom,  else  it  would 
become  mere  subjugation,  but  that  freedom  is  only 
granted  that  obedience  may  be  more  perfect;  and  thus, 
while  a  measure  of  license  is  necessary  to  exhibit  the 
individual  energies  of  things,  the  fairness  and  pleasant- 
ness and  perfection  of  them  all  consist  in  their  Restraint. 
Compare  a  river  that  has  burst  its  banks  with  one  that 
is  bound  by  them,  and  the  clouds  that  are  scattered 
over  the  face  of  the  whole  heaven  with  those  that  are 
marshalled  into  ranks  and  orders  by  its  winds.  So  that 
though  restraint,  utter  and  unrelaxing,  can  never  be 
comely,  this  is  not  because  it  is  in  itself  an  evil,  but 
only  because,  when  too  great,  it  overpowers  the  nature 
of  the  thing  restrained,  and  so  counteracts  the  other 
laws  of  which  that  nature  is  itself  composed.  And  the 
balance  wherein  consists  the  fairness  of  creation  is 
between  the  laws  of  life  and  being  in  the  things  gov- 
erned, and  the  laws  of  general  sway  to  which  they  are 
subjected  ;  and  the  suspension  or  infringement  of  either 
kind  of  law,  or,  literally,  disorder,  is  equivalent  to,  and 
synonymous  with,  disease;  while  the  increase  of  both 
honour  and  beauty  is  habitually  on  the  side  of  restraint 
(or  the  action  of  superior  law)  rather  than  of  character 
(or  the  action  of  inherent  law).  The  noblest  word  in 
the  catalogue  of  social  virtue  is  "Loyalty,"  and  the 
sweetest  which  men  have  learned  in  the  pastures  of 
the  wilderness  is  "Fold." 

Nor  is  this  all ;  but  we  may  observe,  that  exactly  in 
proportion  to  the  majesty  of  things  in  the  scale  of  being, 
is  the  completeness  of  their  obedience  to  the  laws  that 
are  set  over  them.  Gravitation  is  less  quietly,  less 
instantly  obeyed  by  a  grain  of  dust  than  it  is  by  the 


224      THE   SEVEN  LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

sun  and  moon ;  and  the  ocean  falls  and  flows  under 
influences  which  the  lake  and  river  do  not  reco<{nize. 
So  also  in  estimating  the  dignity  of  any  action  or  occu- 
pation of  men,  there  is  perhaps  no  better  test  than  the 
question  "are  its  laws  strait?"  For  their  severity  will 
probably  be  commensurate  with  the  greatness  of  the 
numbers  whose  labour  it  concentrates  or  whose  interest 
it  concerns. 

This  severity  must  be  singular,  therefore,  in  the  case 
of  that  art,  above  all  others,  whose  productions  are  the 
most  vast  and  the  most  common ;  which  requires  for 
its  practice  the  co-operation  of  bodies  of  men,  and  for 
its  perfection  the  perseverance  of  successive  generations. 
And,  taking  into  account  also  what  we  have  before  so 
often  observed  of  Architecture,  her  continual  influence 
over  the  emotions  of  daily  life,  and  her  realism,  as  op- 
posed to  the  two  sister  arts  which  are  in  comparison 
but  the  picturing  of  stories  and  of  dreams,  we  might 
beforehand  expect  that  we  should  find  her  healthy 
state  and  action  dependent  on  far  more  severe  laws 
than  theirs :  that  the  license  which  they  extend  to  the 
workings  of  individual  mind  would  be  withdrawn  by 
her;  and  that,  in  assertion  of  the  relations  which  she 
holds  with  all  that  is  universally  important  to  man,  she 
would  set  forth,  by  her  own  majestic  subjection,  some 
likeness  of  that  on  which  man's  social  happiness  and 
power  depend.  We  might,  therefore,  without  the  light 
of  experience,  conclude,  that  Architecture  never  could 
flourish  except  when  it  was  subjected  to  a  national 
law  as  strict  and  as  minutely  authoritative  as  the  laws 
which  regulate  religion,  policy,  and  social  relations; 
nay,  even  more  authoritative  than  these,  because  both 
capable  of  more  enforcement,  as  over  more  passive 
matter;  and  needing  more  enforcement,  as  the  purest 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE  225 

type  not  of  one  law  nor  of  another,  but  of  the  common 
authority  of  all.  But  in  this  matter  experience  speaks 
more  loudly  than  reason.  If  there  be  any  one  condition 
which,  in  watching  the  progress  of  architecture,  we  see 
distinct  and  general ;  if,  amidst  the  counter-evidence  of 
success  attending  opposite  accidents  of  character  and 
circumstance,  any  one  conclusion  may  be  constantly 
and  indisputably  drawn,  it  is  this ;  that  the  architecture 
of  a  nation  is  great  only  when  it  is  as  universal  and  as 
established  as  its  language ;  and  when  provincial  differ- 
ences of  style  are  nothing  more  than  so  many  dialects. 
Other  necessities  are  matters  of  doubt :  nations  have 
been  alike  successful  in  their  architecture  in  times  of 
poverty  and  of  wealth;  in  times  of  war  and  of  peace ;  in 
times  of  barbarism  and  of  refinement  ;  under  govern- 
ments the  most  liberal  or  the  most  arbitrary;  but  this 
one  condition  has  been  constant,  this  one  requirement 
clear  in  all  places  and  at  all  times,  that  the  work  shall 
be  that  of  a  school,  that  no  individual  caprice  shall 
dispense  with,  or  materially  vary,  accepted  t}^es  and 
customary  decorations  ;  and  that  from  the  cottage  to  the 
palace,  and  from  the  chapel  to  the  basilica,  and  from 
the  garden  fence  to  the  fortress  wall,  every  member 
and  feature  of  the  architecture  of  the  nation  shall  be 
as  commonly  current,  as  frankly  accepted,  as  its  lan- 
guage or  its  coin. 

A  day  never  passes  without  our  hearing  our  English 
architects  called  upon  to  be  original,  and  to  invent  a 
new  style :  about  as  sensible  and  necessary  an  exhorta- 
tion as  to  ask  of  a  man  who  has  never  had  rags  enough 
on  his  back  to  keep  out  cold,  to  invent  a  new  mode  of 
cutting  a  coat.  Give  him  a  whole  coat  first,  and  let 
him  concern  himself  about  the  fashion  of  it  afterwards. 
We  want  no  new  style  of  architecture.    Who  wants  a 


^20    THE   SEVEN   LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

new  style  of  painting  or  sculpture  ?  But  we  want  some 
style.  It  is  of  marvellously  little  impox'tance,  if  we  have 
a  code  of  laws  and  they  be  good  laws,  whether  they  be 
new  or  old,  foreign  or  native,  Roman  or  Saxon,  or 
Norman,  or  English  laws.  But  it  is  of  considerable 
importance  that  we  should  have  a  code  of  laws  of  one 
kind  or  another,  and  that  code  accepted  and  enforced 
from  one  side  of  the  island  to  another,  and  not  one  law 
made  ground  of  judgment  at  York  and  another  in 
Exeter.  And  in  like  manner  it  does  not  matter  one 
marble  splinter  whether  we  have  an  old  or  new  archi- 
tecture, but  it  matters  everything  whether  we  have  an 
architecture  truly  so  called  or  not;  that  is,  whether  an 
architecture  whose  laws  mio^ht  be  taught  at  our  schools 
from  Cornwall  to  Northumberland,  as  we  teach  Eng- 
lish spelling  and  English  grammar,  or  an  architecture 
which  is  to  be  invented  fresh  every  time  we  build  a 
workhouse  or  a  parish  school.  There  seems  to  me  to  be 
a  wonderful  misunderstanding  among  the  majority  of 
architects  at  the  present  day  as  to  the  very  nature  and 
meaning  of  Originahty,  and  of  all  wherein  it  consists. 
Originality  in  expression  does  not  depend  on  invention 
of  new  words;  nor  originality  in  poetry  on  invention  of 
new  measures;  nor,  in  painting,  on  invention  of  new 
colours,  or  new  modes  of  using  them.  The  chords  of 
music,  the  harmonies  of  colour,  the  general  principles 
of  the  arrangement  of  sculptural  masses,  have  been 
determined  long  ago,  and,  in  all  probabiHty,  cannot  be 
added  to  any  more  than  they  can  be  altered.  Granting 
that  they  may  be,  such  additions  or  alterations  are 
much  more  the  work  of  time  and  of  multitudes  than  of 
individual  inventors.  We  may  have  one  Van  Eyck,^ 
who  will  be  known  as  the  introducer  of  a  new  style 
'  Hubert  Van  Eyck  [1366-1440].     The  great  Flemish  master. 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE  227 

once  in  ten  centuries,  but  he  himself  will  trace  his  in- 
vention to  some  accidental  by-play  or  pursuit;  and  the 
use  of  that  invention  will  depend  altogether  on  the  pop- 
ular necessities  or  instincts  of  the  period.  Originality 
depends  on  nothing  of  the  kind.  A  man  who  has  the 
gift,  will  take  up  any  style  that  is  going,  the  style  of  his 
day,  and  will  work  in  that,  and  be  great  in  that,  and 
make  everything  that  he  does  in  it  look  as  fresh  as  if 
every  thought  of  it  had  just  come  down  from  heaven. 
I  do  not  say  that  he  will  not  take  liberties  with  his 
materials,  or  with  his  rules :  I  do  not  say  that  strange 
changes  will  not  sometimes  be  wrought  by  his  efforts, 
or  his  fancies,  in  both.  But  those  changes  will  be  in- 
structive, natural,  facile, though  sometimes  marvellous; 
they  will  never  be  sought  after  as  things  necessary  to  his 
dignity  or  to  his  independence;  and  those  liberties  will 
be  like  the  liberties  that  a  great  speaker  takes  with  the 
language,  not  a  defiance  of  its  rules  for  the  sake  of 
singularity;  but  inevitable,  uncalculated,  and  brilliant 
consequences  of  an  effort  to  express  what  the  language, 
without  such  infraction,  could  not.  There  may  be 
times  when,  as  I  have  above  described,  the  life  of  an 
art  is  manifested  in  its  changes,  and  in  its  refusal  of 
ancient  limitations :  so  there  are  in  the  life  of  an  insect; 
and  there  is  great  interest  in  the  state  of  both  the  art 
and  the  insect  at  those  periods  when,  by  their  natural 
progress  and  constitutional  power,  such  changes  are 
about  to  be  wrought.  But  as  that  would  be  both  an 
uncomfortable  and  foolish  caterpillar  which,  instead 
of  being  contented  with  a  caterpillar's  life  and  feeding 
on  caterpillar's  food,  was  always  striving  to  turn  itself 
into  a  chrysalis;  and  as  that  would  be  an  unhappy 
chrysalis  which  should  lie  awake  at  night  and  roll 
restlessly  in  its  cocoon,  in  efforts  to  turn  itself  pre- 


228    THE  SEVEN   LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

maturely  into  a  moth;  so  will  that  art  be  unhappy  and 
unprospcrous  which,  instead  of  supporting  itself  on  the 
food,  and  contenting  itself  with  the  customs,  which 
have  been  enough  for  the  support  and  guidance  of  other 
arts  before  it  and  like  it,  is  struggling  and  fretting 
under  the  natural  limitations  of  its  existence,  and  striv- 
ing to  become  something  other  than  it  is.  And  though 
it  is  the  nobility  of  the  highest  creatures  to  look  forward 
to,  and  partly  to  understand  the  changes  which  are 
appointed  for  them,  preparing  for  them  beforehand; 
and  if,  as  is  usual  with  appointed  changes,  they  be  intc 
a  higher  state,  even  desiring  them,  and  rejoicing  in  the 
hope  of  them,  yet  it  is  the  strength  of  every  creature, 
be  it  changeful  or  not,  to  rest  for  the  time  being,  con- 
tented with  the  conditions  of  its  existence,  and  striving 
only  to  bring  about  the  changes  which  it  desires,  by 
fuliilling  to  the  uttermost  the  duties  for  which  its  pre- 
sent state  is  appointed  and  continued. 

Neither  originality,  therefore,  nor  change,  good 
though  both  may  be,  and  this  is  commonly  a  most 
merciful  and  enthusiastic  supposition  with  respect  to 
either,  is  ever  to  be  sought  in  itself,  or  can  ever  be 
healthily  obtained  by  any  struggle  or  rebellion  against 
common  laws.  We  want  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
The  forms  of  architecture  already  known  are  good 
enough  for  us,  and  for  far  better  than  any  of  us :  and  it 
will  be  time  enough,  to  think  of  chanmng  them  for 
better  when  we  can  use  them  as  they  are.  But  there  are 
some  things  which  we  not  only  want,  but  cannot  do 
without;  and  which  all  the  struggling  and  raving  in  the 
world,  nay  more,  which  all  the  real  talent  and  resolu- 
tion in  England,  will  never  enable  us  to  do  without: 
and  these  are  Obedience,  Unity,  Fellowship,  and  Order. 
And  all  our  schools  of  design,  and  committees  of  taste; 


THE  LAMP   OF  OBEDIENCE  229 

all  our  academies  and  lectures,  and  journalisms,  and 
essays;  all  the  sacrifices  which  we  are  beginning  to 
make,  all  the  truth  which  there  is  in  our  English  nature, 
all  the  power  of  our  English  will,  and  the  life  of  our 
English  intellect,  will  in  this  matter  be  as  useless  as 
efforts  and  emotions  in  a  dream,  unless  we  are  con- 
tented to  submit  architecture  and  all  art,  like  other 
things,  to  English  law. 

I  say  architecture  and  all  art ;  for  I  believe  architec- 
ture must  be  the  beginning  of  arts,  and  that  the  others 
must  follow  her  in  their  time  and  order;  and  I  think 
the  prosperity  of  our  schools  of  painting  and  sculpture, 
in  which  no  one  will  deny  the  life,  though  many  the 
health,  depends  upon  that  of  our  architecture.  I  think 
that  all  will  languish  until  that  takes  the  lead,  and 
(this  I  do  not  think,  but  I  proclaim,  as  confidently  as  I 
would  assert  the  necessity,  for  the  safety  of  society,  of 
an  understood  and  strongly  administered  legal  gov- 
ernment) our  architecture  will  languish,  and  that  in 
the  very  dust,  until  the  first  principle  of  common  sense 
be  manfully  obeyed,  and  an  universal  system  of  form 
and  workmanship  be  everywhere  adopted  and  en- 
forced. It  may  be  said  that  this  is  impossible.  It  may 
be  so  —  I  fear  it  is  so :  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
possibility  or  impossibility  of  it;  I  simply  know  and 
assert  the  necessity  of  it.  If  it  be  impossible,  English 
art  is  impossible.  Give  it  up  at  once.  You  are  wasting 
time,  and  money,  and  energy  upon  it,  and  though  you 
exhaust  centuries  and  treasures,  and  break  hearts  for 
it,  you  will  never  raise  it  above  the  merest  dilettanteism. 
Think  not  of  it.  It  is  a  dangerous  vanity,  a  mere  gulph 
in  which  genius  after  genius  will  be  swallowed  up,  and 
it  will  not  close.  And  so  it  will  continue  to  be,  unless 
the  one  bold  and  broad  step  be  taken  at  the  beginning. 


230    THE  SEVEN   LAMPS  OF  ARCHITECTURE 

We  shall  not  manufacture  art  out  of  pottery  and  printed 
stuffs;  we  shall  not  reason  out  art  by  our  philosophy; 
we  shall  not  stumble  upon  art  by  our  experiments,  nor 
create  it  by  our  fancies :  I  do  not  say  that  we  can  even 
build  it  out  of  brick  and  stone ;  but  there  is  a  chance  for 
us  in  these,  and  there  is  none  else;  and  that  chance 
rests  on  the  bare  possibility  of  obtaining  the  consent, 
both  of  architects  and  of  the  public,  to  choose  a  style, 
and  to  use  it  universally. 

How  surely  its  principles  ought  at  first  to  be  limited, 
we  may  easily  determine  by  the  consideration  of  the 
necessary  modes  of  teaching  any  other  branch  of  gen- 
eral knowledge.  When  we  begin  to  teach  children 
writing,  we  force  them  to  absolute  copyism,  and  require 
absolute  accuracy  in  the  formation  of  the  letters;  as 
they  obtain  command  of  the  received  modes  of  literal 
expression,  we  cannot  prevent  their  falling  into  such 
variations  as  are  consistent  with  their  feeling,  their 
circumstances,  or  their  characters.  So,  when  a  boy  is 
first  taught  to  write  Latin,  an  authority  is  required  of 
him  for  every  expression  he  uses;  as  he  becomes  master 
of  the  language  he  may  take  a  license,  and  feel  his  right 
to  do  so  without  any  authority,  and  yet  write  better 
Latin  than  when  he  borrowed  every  separate  expres- 
sion. In  the  same  way  our  architects  would  have  to  be 
taught  to  write  the  accepted  style.  We  must  first  de- 
termine what  buildings  are  to  be  considered  Augustan 
in  their  authority;  their  modes  of  construction  and 
laws  of  proportion  are  to  be  studied  with  the  most 
penetrating  care;  then  the  different  forms  and  uses  of 
their  decorations  are  to  be  classed  and  catalogued,  as  a 
German  grammarian  classes  the  powers  of  prepositions; 
and  under  this  absolute,  irrefragable  authority,  we  are 
to  begin  to  w^ork ;  admitting  not  so  much  as  an  altera- 


THE  LAMP  OF  OBEDIENCE  231 

tion  in  the  depth  of  a  cavetto,^  or  the  breadth  of  a  fillet. 
Then,  when  our  sight  is  once  accustomed  to  the  gram- 
matical forms  and  arrangements,  and  our  thoughts 
familiar  with  the  expression  of  them  all ;  when  we  can 
speak  this  dead  language  naturally,  and  apply  it  to 
whatever  ideas  we  have  to  render,  that  is  to  say,  to 
every  practical  purpose  of  life ;  then,  and  not  till  then,  a 
license  might  be  permitted,  and  individual  authority 
allowed  to  change  or  to  add  to  the  received  forms,  al- 
ways within  certain  limits;  the  decorations,  especially, 
might  be  made  subjects  of  variable  fancy,  and  enriched 
with  ideas  either  original  or  taken  from  other  schools. 
And  thus,  in  process  of  time  and  by  a  great  national 
movement,  it  might  come  to  pass  that  a  new  style 
should  arise,  as  language  itself  changes ;  we  might  per- 
haps come  to  speak  Italian  instead  of  Latin,  or  to  speak 
modern  instead  of  old  English;  but  this  would  be  a 
matter  of  entire  indifference,  and  a  matter,  besides, 
which  no  determination  or  desire  could  either  hasten 
or  prevent.  That  alone  which  it  is  in  our  power  to  ob- 
tain, and  which  it  is  our  duty  to  desire,  is  an  unanimous 
style  of  some  kind,  and  such  comprehension  and  prac- 
tice of  it  as  would  enable  us  to  adapt  its  features  to  the 
peculiar  character  of  every  several  building,  large  or 
small,  domestic,  civil  or  ecclesiastical. 

*  A  hollowed  moulding.    [New  Eng.  Diet.] 


SELECTIONS   FROM    LECTURES   ON  ART 

RusKix  was  first  elected  to  the  Slade  Professorship  of 
Fine  Art  in  Oxford  in  1869,  and  held  the  chair  continu- 
ously until  1878,  when  he  resigned  because  of  ill-health, 
and  again  from  1883  to  1885.  The  Lectures  on  Art  were 
announced  in  the  Oxford  University  Gazette  of  January 
28,  1870,  the  general  subject  of  the  course  being  "  The 
Limits  and  Elementary  Practice  of  Art,"  with  Leonardo's 
Trattato  della  Pittura  as  the  text-book.  The  lectures  were 
delivered  between  February  8  and  March  23,  1870.  They 
appeared  in  book  form  in  July  of  the  same  year.  These  lec- 
tures contain  much  of  his  best  and  most  mature  thought, 
of  his  most  painstaking  research  and  keenest  analysis. 
Talking  with  a  friend  in  later  years,  he  said :  ''  I  have  taken 
more  pains  with  the  Oxford  Lectures  than  with  anything 
else  I  have  ever  done  "  :  and  in  the  preface  to  the  edition 
of  1887  he  began  :  ''  The  following  lectures  were  the  most 
important  piece  of  my  literary  work,  done  with  unabated 
power,  best  motive,  and  happiest  concurrence  of  circum- 
stance." Ruskin  took  his  professorship  very  seriously.  He 
spent  almost  infinite  labour  in  composing  his  more  formal 
lectures,  and  during  the  eight  years  in  which  he  held  the 
chair  he  published  six  volumes  of  them,  not  to  mention 
three  Italian  guide-books,  which  came  under  his  interpreta- 
tion of  his  professional  duties; — ''the  real  duty  involved 
in  my  Oxford  Professorship  cannot  be  completely  done 
by  giving  lectures  in  Oxford  only,  but  ...  I  ought  also 
to  give  what  guidance  I  may  to  travellers  in  Italy."  Not 
only  by  lecturing  and  writing  did  he  fill  the  chair,  but  he 
taught  individuals,  founded  and  endowed  a  Drawing  mas- 
tership, and  presented  elaborately  catalogued  collections 
to  illustrate  his  subject.  His  lecture  classes  were  always 
large,  and  his  work  had  a  marked  influence  in  the  Univer- 
sity. 


INAUGURAL  233 


INAUGURAL 

We  see  lately  a  most  powerful  impulse  given  to  the 
production  of  costly  works  of  art  by  the  various  causes 
which  promote  the  sudden  accumulation  of  wealth  in 
the  hands  of  private  persons.  We  have  thus  a  vast  and 
new  patronage,  which,  in  its  present  agency,  is  in- 
jurious to  our  schools;  but  which  is  nevertheless  in  a 
great  degree  earnest  and  conscientious,  and  far  from 
being  influenced  chiefly  by  motives  of  ostentation. 
Most  of  our  rich  men  would  be  glad  to  promote  the 
true  interests  of  art  in  this  country;  and  even  those 
who  buy  for  vanity,  found  their  vanity  on  the  posses- 
sion of  what  they  suppose  to  be  best. 

It  is  therefore  in  a  great  measure  the  fault  of  artists 
themselves  if  they  suffer  from  this  partly  unintelligent, 
but  thoroughly  well-intended  patronage.  If  they  seek 
to  attract  it  by  eccentricity,  to  deceive  it  by  superficial 
qualities,  or  take  advantage  of  it  by  thoughtless  and 
facile  production,  they  necessarily  degrade  themselves 
and  it  together,  and  have  no  right  to  complain  after- 
wards that  it  will  not  acknowledge  better-grounded 
claims.  But  if  every  painter  of  real  power  would  do 
only  what  he  knew  to  be  worthy  of  himself,  and  re- 
fuse to  be  involved  in  the  contention  for  undeserved 
or  accidental  success,  there  is  indeed,  whatever  may 
have  been  thought  or  said  to  the  contrary,  true  instinct 
enough  in  the  public  mind  to  follow  such  firm  guidance. 
It  is  one  of  the  facts  which  the  experience  of  thirty  years 
enables  me  to  assert  without  qualification,  that  a  really 
good  picture  is  ultimately  always  approved  and  bought, 
unless  it  is  wilfully  rendered  offensive  to  the  public  by 
faults  which  the  artist  has  been  either  too  proud  to 
abandon  or  too  weak  to  correct. 


234  LECTURES   ON  ART 

The  development  of  whatever  is  healthful  and 
serviceable  in  the  two  modes  of  impulse  which  we 
have  been  considering,  depends  however,  ultimately, 
on  the  direction  taken  by  the  true  interest  in  art  which 
has  lately  been  aroused  by  the  great  and  active  genius 
of  many  of  our  living,  or  but  lately  lost,  painters, 
sculptors,  and  architects.  It  may  perhaps  surprise, 
but  I  think  it  will  please  you  to  hear  me,  or  (if  you  will 
forgive  me,  in  my  own  Oxford,  the  presumption  of 
fancying  that  some  may  recognize  me  by  an  old  name) 
to  hear  the  author  of  Modern  Painters  say,  that  his 
chief  error  in  earlier  days  was  not  in  over-estimating, 
but  in  too  slightly  acknowledging  the  merit  of  living 
men.  The  great  painter  whose  power,  while  he  was  yet 
among  us,I  was  able  to  perceive,  ^  was  the  first  to  reprove 
me  for  my  disregard  of  the  skill  of  his  fellow-artists; 
and,  with  this  inauguration  of  the  study  of  the  art  of 
all  time,  —  a  study  which  can  only  by  true  modesty  end 
in  wise  admiration,  —  it  is  surely  well  that  I  connect 
the  record  of  these  words  of  his,  spoken  then  too  truly 
to  myself,  and  true  always  more  or  less  for  all  who  are 
untrained  in  that  toil,  —  "  You  don't  know  how  diffi- 
cult it  is." 

You  will  not  expect  me,  within  the  compass  of  this 
lecture,  to  give  you  any  analysis  of  the  many  kinds  of 
excellent  art  (in  all  the  three  great  divisions)  which  the 
complex  demands  of  modern  life,  and  yet  more  varied 
instincts  of  modern  genius,  have  developed  for  pleasure 
or  service.  It  must  be  my  endeavour,  in  conjunction 
with  my  colleagues  in  other  Universities,  hereafter  to 
enable  you  to  appreciate  these  worthily;  in  the  hope 
that  also  the  members  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and 
those  of  the  Institute  of  British  Architects,  may  be 
induced  to  assist,  and  guide,  the  efforts  of  the  Universi 
^  Turner. 


INAUGURAL  235 

ties,  by  organizing  such  a  system  of  art  education  for 
their  own  students,  as  shall  in  future  prevent  the  waste 
of  genius  in  any  mistaken  endeavours;  especially 
removing  doubt  as  to  the  proper  substance  and  use 
of  materials;  and  requiring  compliance  with  certain 
elementary  principles  of  right,  in  every  picture  and 
design  exhibited  with  their  sanction.  It  is  not  indeed 
possible  for  talent  so  varied  as  that  of  English  artists 
to  be  compelled  into  the  formalities  of  a  determined 
school ;  but  it  must  certainly  be  the  function  of  every 
academical  body  to  see  that  their  younger  students  are 
guarded  from  what  must  in  every  school  be  error ;  and 
that  they  are  practised  in  the  best  methods  of  work 
hitherto  known,  before  their  ingenuity  is  directed  to 
the  invention  of  others. 

I  need  scarcely  refer,  except  for  the  sake  of  com- 
pleteness in  my  statement,  to  one  form  of  demand  for 
art  which  is  wholly  unenlightened,  and  powerful  only 
for  evil ;  —  namely,  the  demand  of  the  classes  occupied 
solely  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  for  objects  and  modes 
of  art  that  can  amuse  indolence  or  excite  passion. 
There  is  no  need  for  any  discussion  of  these  require- 
ments, or  of  their  forms  of  influence,  though  they  are 
very  deadly  at  present  in  their  operation  on  sculpture, 
and  on  jewellers'  work.  They  cannot  be  checked  by 
blame,  nor  guided  by  instruction ;  they  are  merely  the 
necessary  results  of  whatever  defects  exist  in  the  temper 
and  principles  of  a  luxurious  society ;  and  it  is  only  by 
moral  changes,  not  by  art-criticism,  that  their  action 
can  be  modified. 

Lastly,  there  is  a  continually  increasing  demand  for 
popular  art,  multipliable  by  the  printing-press,  illus- 
trative of  daily  events,  of  general  literature,  and  of 
natural  science.  Admirable  skill,  and  some  of  the  bes* 


23G  LECTURES   ON   ART 

talent  of  modern  times,  are  occupied  in  si!pplying  this 
\vant;  and  there  is  no  limit  to  the  good  which  may  be 
effected  by  rightly  taking  advantage  of  the  powers  we 
now  possess  of  placing  good  and  lovely  art  within  the 
reach  of  the  poorest  classes.  Much  has  been  already 
accomplished;  but  great  harm  has  been  done  also, — 
first,  by  forms  of  art  definitely  addressed  to  depraved 
tastes;  and,  secondly,  in  a  more  subtle  way,  by  really 
beautiful  and  useful  engravings  which  are  yet  not  good 
enough  to  retain  their  influence  on  the  public  mind  ;  — 
which  weary  it  by  redundant  quantity  of  monotonous 
average  excellence,  and  diminish  or  destroy  its  power 
of  accurate  attention  to  work  of  a  higher  order. 

Especially  this  is  to  be  regretted  in  the  effect  pro- 
duced on  the  schools  of  line  engraving,  which  had 
reached  in  England  an  executive  skill  of  a  kind  before 
unexampled,  and  which  of  late  have  lost  much  of  their 
more  sterling  and  legitimate  methods.  Still,  I  have 
seen  plates  produced  quite  recently,  more  beautiful,  I 
think,  in  some  qualities  than  anything  ever  before 
attained  by  the  burin :  *  and  I  have  not  the  slightest  fear 
that  photography,  or  any  other  adverse  or  competitive 
operation,  wmII  in  the  least  ultimately  diminish,  —  I 
believe  they  will,  on  the  contrary,  stimulate  and  exalt  — 
the  grand  old  powers  of  the  w^ood  and  the  steel. 

Such  are,  I  think,  briefly  the  present  conditions  of 
art  w  ith  which  w^e  have  to  deal ;  and  I  conceive  it  to  be 
the  function  of  this  Professorship,  with  respect  to  them, 
to  establish  both  a  practical  and  critical  school  of  fine 
art  for  English  gentlemen :  practical,  so  that,  if  they 
draw  at  all,  they  may  draw  rightly ;  and  critical,  so  that, 
being  first  directed  to  such  works  of  existing  art  as  will 
best  reward  their  study,  they  may  afterwards  make 
^  Tlie  tool  of  the  engraver  on  copper. 


INAUGURAL  237 

their  patronage  of  living  artists  delightful  to  them- 
selves in  their  consciousness  of  its  justice,  and,  to  the 
utmost,  beneficial  to  their  country,  by  being  given  only 
to  the  men  who  deserve  it ;  in  the  early  period  of  their 
lives,  when  they  both  need  it  most  and  can  be  influ- 
enced by  it  to  the  best  advantage. 

And  especially  with  reference  to  this  function  of 
patronage,  I  believe  myself  justified  in  taking  into 
account  future  probabilities  as  to  the  character  and 
range  of  art  in  England ;  and  I  shall  endeavour  at  once 
to  organize  with  you  a  system  of  study  calculated  to 
develope  chiefly  the  knowledge  of  those  branches  in 
which  the  English  schools  have  shown,  and  are  likely 
to  show,  peculiar  excellence. 

Now,  in  asking  your  sanction  both  for  the  nature  of 
the  general  plans  I  wish  to  adopt,  and  for  what  I  con- 
ceive to  be  necessary  limitations  of  them,  I  wish  you 
to  be  fully  aware  of  my  reasons  for  both :  and  I  will 
therefore  risk  the  burdening  of  your  patience  while  I 
state  the  directions  of  effort  in  which  I  think  English 
artists  are  liable  to  failure,  and  those  also  in  which 
past  experience  has  shown  they  are  secure  of  success. 

I  referred,  but  now,  to  the  effort  we  are  making  to 
improve  the  designs  of  our  manufactures.  Within  cer- 
tain limits  I  believe  this  improvement  may  indeed  take 
effect :  so  that  we  may  no  more  humour  momentary 
fashions  by  ugly  results  of  chance  instead  of  design; 
and  may  produce  both  good  tissues,  of  harmonious 
colours,  and  good  forms  and  substance  of  pottery  and 
glass.  But  we  shall  never  excel  in  decorative  design. 
Such  design  is  usually  produced  by  people  of  great 
natural  powers  of  mind,  who  have  no  variety  of  sub- 
jects to  employ  themselves  on,  no  oppressive  anxieties, 
and  are  in  circumstances  either  of  natural  scenery  or 


238  LECTURES   ON  ART 

of  daily  life,  which  cause  pleasurable  excitement.  We 
cannot  design  because  we  have  too  much  to  think  of, 
and  we  think  of  it  too  anxiously.  It  has  long  been 
observed  how  little  real  anxiety  exists  in  the  minds  of 
the  partly  savage  races  which  excel  in  decorative  art; 
and  we  must  not  suppose  that  the  temper  of  the  middle 
ages  was  a  troubled  one,  because  every  day  brought  its 
dangers  or  its  chancres.  Theverveventfulness  of  the  life 
rendered  it  careless,  as  generally  is  still  the  case  with 
soldiers  and  sailors.  Now,  when  there  are  great  powers 
of  thought,  and  little  to  think  of,  all  the  waste  energy 
and  fancy  are  thrown  into  the  manual  work,  and  you 
have  as  much  intellect  as  would  direct  the  affairs  of 
a  large  mercantile  concern  for  a  day,  spent  all  at  once, 
quite  unconsciously,  in  drawing  an  ingenious  spiral. 

Also,  powers  of  doing  fine  ornamental  work  are  only 
to  be  reached  by  a  perpetual  discipline  of  the  hand  as 
well  as  of  the  fancy;  discipline  as  attentive  and  painful 
as  that  which  a  juggler  has  to  put  himself  through,  to 
overcome  the  more  palpable  difficulties  of  his  profes- 
sion. The  execution  of  the  best  artists  is  always  a 
splendid  tour-de-force,  and  much  that  in  painting  is 
supposed  to  be  dependent  on  material  is  indeed  only  a 
lovely  and  quite  inimitable  legerdemain.  Now,  when 
powers  of  fancy,  stimulated  by  this  triumphant  preci- 
sion of  manual  dexterity,  descend  uninterruptedly  from 
generation  to  generation,  you  have  at  last,  what  is  not 
so  much  a  trained  artist  as  a  new  species  of  animal,  with 
whose  instinctive  gifts  you  have  no  chance  of  con- 
tending. And  thus  all  our  imitations  of  other  peoples' 
work  are  futile.  We  must  learn  first  to  make  honest 
English  wares,  and  afterward  to  decorate  them  as  may 
please  the  then  approving  Graces. 

Secondly  —  and  this  is  an  incapacity  of  a  graver 


INAUGURAL  239 

kind,  yet  having  its  own  good  in  it  also  —  we  shall 
never  be  successful  in  the  highest  fields  of  ideal  or 
theological  art. 

For  there  is  one  strange,  but  quite  essential,  char.ac- 
ter  in  us  —  ever  since  the  Conquest,  if  not  earlier:  — 
a  delight  in  the  forms  of  burlesque  which  are  con- 
nected in  some  degree  with  the  foulness  in  evil.  I  think 
the  most  perfect  type  of  a  true  English  mind  in  its  besi 
possible  temper,  is  that  of  Chaucer;  and  you  will  find 
that,  while  it  is  for  the  most  part  full  of  thoughts  of 
beauty,  pure  and  wild  like  that  of  an  April  morning, 
there  are,  even  in  the  midst  of  this,  sometimes  momen- 
tarily jesting  passages  which  stoop  to  play  with  evil  — ■ 
while  the  power  of  listening  to  and  enjoying  the  jesting 
of  entirely  gross  persons,  whatever  the  feeling  may  be 
which  permits  it,  afterwards  degenerates  into  forms 
of  humour  which  render  some  of  quite  the  greatest, 
wisest,  and  most  moral  of  English  writers  now  almost 
useless  for  our  youth.  And  yet  you  will  find  that  when- 
ever Englishmen  are  wholly  without  this  instinct,  their 
genius  is  comparatively  weak  and  restricted. 

Now,  the  first  necessity  for  the  doing  of  any  great 
work  in  ideal  art,  is  the  looking  upon  all  foulness  with, 
horror,  as  a  contemptible  though  dreadful  enemy.  You 
may  easily  understand  what  I  mean,  by  comparing  the 
feelings  with  which  Dante  regards  any  form  of  obscenity 
or  of  base  jest,  with  the  temper  in  which  the  same  things 
are  regarded  by  Shakspere.    And  this  strange  earthly 
instinct  of  ours,  coupled  as  it  is,  in  our  good   men, 
with  great  simplicity  and  common  sense,  renders  them  | 
shrewd  and  perfect  observers  and  delineators  of  actual  \ 
nature,  low  or  high ;  but  precludes  them  from  that  spe-  ^ 
ciality  of  art  which  is  properly  called  sublime.   If  ever 
we  try  anything  in  the  manner  of  Michael  Angelo  or  of 


240  LECTURES   ON  ART 

Dante,  we  catch  a  fall,  even  in  literature,  as  Milton  in 
the  battle  of  the  angels,  spoiled  from  Hesiod  :^  while  in 
art,  every  attempt  in  this  style  has  hitherto  been  the  sign 
either  of  the  presumptuous  egotism  of  persons  w4io  had 
never  reallv  learned  to  be  workmen,  or  it  has  been  con- 
nected with  very  tragic  forms  of  the  contemplation  of 
death,  —  it  has  always  been  partly  insane,  and  never 
once  wholly  successful. 

But  we  need  not  feel  any  discomfort  in  these  limi- 
tations of  our  capacity.  We  can  do  much  that  others 
cannot,  and  more  than  we  have  ever  yet  ourselves  com- 
I  pletely  done.  Our  first  great  gift  is  in  the  portraiture  of 
1  living  people  —  a  power  already  so  accomplished  in 
■  both  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough,  that  nothing  is  left 
for  future  masters  but  to  add  the  calm  of  perfect  work- 
manship to  their  vigour  and  felicity  of  perception.  And 
of  what  value  a  true  school  of  portraiture  may  become 
in  the  future,  when  worthy  men  will  desire  only  to  be 
known,  and  others  wnll  not  fear  to  know  them,  for  what 
they  truly  were,  we  cannot  from  any  past  records  of  art 
influence  yet  conceive.  But  in  my  next  address  it  will 
be  partly  my  endeavour  to  show  you  how  much  more 
useful,  because  more  humble,  the  labour  of  great  mas- 
ters might  have  been,  had  they  been  content  to  bear 
record  of  the  souls  that  were  dwelling  with  them  on 
earth,  instead  of  striving  to  give  a  deceptive  glory  to 
those  they  dreamed  of  in  heaven. 

I      Secondly,  we  have  an  intense  power  of  invention 
land  expression  in  domestic  drama;    (King  Lear  and 
'  Hamlet  being  essentially  domestic  in  their  strongest 
motives  of  interest).   There  is  a  tendency  at  this  mo- 
ment towards  a  noble  development  of  our  art  in  this 
direction,  checked  by  many  adverse  conditions,  which 
1  See  Paradise  Lost  6.  207  tf .,  and  Hesiod's  Theogmy,  676  ff. 


INAUGURAL  241 

may  be  summed  in  one,  —  the  insufficiency  of  generous 
civic  or  patriotic  passion  in  the  heart  of  the  English 
people;  a  fault  which  makes  its  domestic  affections 
selfish,  contracted,  and,  therefore,  frivolous. 

Thirdly,  in  connection  with  our  simplicity  and  good- 
humour,  and  partly  with  that  very  love  of  the  grotesque 
which  debases  our  ideal,  we  have  a  sympathy  with  the 
lower  animals  which  is  peculiarly  our  own ;  and  which, 
though  it  has  already  found  some  exquisite  expression 
in  the  works  of  Bewick  and  Landseer,  is  yet  quite  un- 
developed. This  sympathy,  with  the  aid  of  our  now 
authoritative  science  of  physiology,  and  in  association 
with  our  British  love  of  adventure,  will,  I  hope,  enable 
us  to  give  to  the  future  inhabitants  of  the  globe  an 
almost  perfect  record  of  the  present  forms  of  animal 
life  upon  it,  of  which  many  are  on  the  point  of  being 
extinguished.  ... 

While  I  myself  hold  this  professorship,  I  shall  direct 
you  in  these  exercises  very  definitely  to  natural  his- 
tory, and  to  landscape ;  not  only  because  in  these  two 
branches  I  am  probably  able  to  show  you  truths  which 
might  be  despised  by  my  successors;  but  because  I 
think  the  vital  and  joyful  study  of  natural  history  quite 
the  principal  element  requiring  introduction,  not  only 
into  University,  but  into  national,  education,  from 
highest  to  lowest;  and  I  even  will  risk  incurring  your 
ridicule  by  confessing  one  of  my  fondest  dreams,  that 
I  may  succeed  in  making  some  of  you  English  youths 
like  better  to  look  at  a  bird  than  to  shoot  it ;  and  even 
desire  to  make  wild  creatures  tame,  instead  of  tame 
creatures  wild.  And  for  the  study  of  landscape,  it  is,  I 
think,  now  calculated  to  be  of  use  in  deeper,  if  not  more 
important  modes,  than  that  of  natural  science,  for  rea- 
sons which  I  will  ask  you  to  let  me  state  at  some  length. 


^42  LECTURES   ON  ART 

Observe  first;  —  no  race  of  men  which  is  entirely 
bred  in  wild  country,  far  from  cities,  ever  enjoys  land- 
scape. They  may  enjoy  the  beauty  of  animals,  but 
scarcely  even  that :  a  true  peasant  cannot  see  the  beauty 
of  cattle;  but  only  the  qualities  expressive  of  their  ser- 
viceableness.  I  waive  discussion  of  this  to-day;  permit 
my  assertion  of  it,  under  my  confident  guarantee  of 
future  proof.  Landscape  can  only  be  enjoyed  by  culti- 
vated persons;  and  it  is  only  by  music,  literature,  and 
painting,  that  cultivation  can  be  given.  Also,  the  fac- 
ulties which  are  thus  received  are  hereditary;  so  that 
the  child  of  an  educated  race  has  an  innate  instinct  for 
beauty,  derived  from  arts  practised  hundreds  of  years 
before  its  birth.  Now  farther  note  this,  one  of  the 
loveliest  things  in  human  nature.  In  the  children  of 
noble  races,  trained  by  surrounding  art,  and  at  the 
same  time  in  the  practice  of  great  deeds,  there  is  an 
intense  delight  in  the  landscape  of  their  country  as 
memorial ;  a  sense  not  taught  to  them,  nor  teachable 
to  any  others;  but,  in  them,  innate;  and  the  seal  and 
reward  of  persistence  in  great  national  life ;  —  the  obe- 
dience and  the  peace  of  ages  having  extended  gradually 
the  glory  of  the  revered  ancestors  also  to  the  ancestral 
land ;  until  the  Motherhood  of  the  dust,  the  mystery 
of  the  Demeter  from  whose  bosom  we  came,  and  to 
whose  bosom  we  return,  surrounds  and  inspires, 
everywhere,  the  local  awe  of  field  and  fountain;  the 
sacredness  of  landmark  that  none  may  remove,  and  of 
wave  that  none  may  pollute;  while  records  of  proud 
days,  and  of  dear  persons,  make  every  rock  monu- 
mental with  ghostly  inscription,  and  every  path  lovely 
with  noble  desolateness. 

Now,  however  checked  by  lightness  of  temperament, 
the  instinctive  love  of  landscape  in  us  has  this  deep 


INAUGURAL  243 

root,  which,  in  your  minds,  I  will  pray  you  to  disen- 
cumber from  whatever  may  oppress  or  mortify  it,  and 
to  strive  to  feel  with  all  the  strength  of  your  youth  that 
a  nation  is  only  worthy  of  the  soil  and  the  scenes  that  it 
has  inherited,  when,  by  all  its  acts  and  arts,  it  is  making 
them  more  lovely  for  its  children.  .  .  . 

But  if  either  our  work,  or  our  inquiries,  are  to  be 
indeed  successful  in  their  own  field,  they  must  be  con- 
nected with  others  of  a  sterner  character.  Now  listen 
to  me,  if  I  have  in  these  past  details  lost  or  burdened 
your  attention ;  for  this  is  what  I  have  chiefly  to  say  to 
you.  The  art  of  any  country  is  the  exponent  of  its  social 
and  political  virtues.  I  will  show  you  that  it  is  so  in 
some  detail,  in  the  second  of  my  subsequent  course  of 
lectures;  meantime  accept  this  as  one  of  the  things, 
and  the  most  important  of  all  things,  I  can  positively 
declare  to  you.  The  art,  or  general  productive  and 
formative  energy,  of  any  country,  is  an  exact  exponent 
of  its  ethical  life.  You  can  have  noble  art  only  from 
noble  persons,  associated  under  laws  fitted  to  their 
time  and  circumstances.  And  the  best  skill  that  any 
teacher  of  art  could  spend  here  in  your  help,  would  not 
end  in  enabling  you  even  so  much  as  rightly  to  draw 
the  water-lilies  in  the  Cherwell  (and  though  it  did,  the 
work  when  done  would  not  be  worth  the  lilies  them- 
selves) unless  both  he  and  you  were  seeking,  as  I  trust 
we  shall  together  seek,  in  the  laws  which  regulate  the 
finest  industries,  the  clue  to  the  laws  which  regulate 
all  industries,  and  in  better  obedience  to  which  we  shall 
actually  have  henceforward  to  live  :  not  merely  in  com- 
pliance with  our  own  sense  of  what  is  right,  but  under 
the  weight  of  quite  literal  necessity.  For  the  trades  by 
which  the  British  people  has  believed  it  to  be  the  high- 
est of  destinies  to  maintain  itself,  cannot  now  long 


244  LECTURES   ON   ART 

remain  undisputed  in  its  hands;  its  unemployed  poor 
are  daily  becoming  more  violently  criminal;  and  a 
certain  distress  in  the  middle  classes,  arising,  partly 
from  their  vanity  in  living  always  up  to  their  incomes, 
and  partly  from  their  folly  in  imagining  that  they  can 
subsist  in  idleness  upon  usury,  will  at  last  compel  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  English  families  to  acquaint 
themselves  with  the  principles  of  providential  economy ; 
and  to  learn  that  food  can  only  be  got  out  of  the  ground, 
and  competence  only  secured  by  frugality;  and  that 
although  it  is  not  possible  for  all  to  be  occupied  in  the 
highest  arts,  nor  for  any,  guiltlessly,  to  pass  their  days 
in  a  succession  of  pleasures,  the  most  perfect  mental 
culture  possible  to  men  is  founded  on  their  useful  ener- 
gies, and  their  best  arts  and  brightest  happiness  are 
consistent,  and  consistent  only,  with  their  virtue. 

This,  I  repeat,  gentlemen,  will  soon  become  manifest 
to  those  among  us,  and  there  are  yet  many,  who  are 
honest-hearted.  And  the  future  fate  of  England  de- 
pends upon  the  position  they  then  take,  and  on  their 
courage  in  maintaining  it. 

There  is  a  destiny  now  possible  to  us  —  the  highest 
ever  set  before  a  nation  to  be  accepted  or  refused.  We 
are  still  undegenerate  in  race;  a  race  mingled  of  the 
best  northern  blood.  We  are  not  yet  dissolute  in  tem- 
per, but  still  have  the  firmness  to  govern,  and  the  grace 
to  obey.  We  have  been  taught  a  religion  of  pure  mercy, 
which  we  must  either  now  betray,  or  learn  to  defend  by 
fulfilling.  And  we  are  rich  in  an  inheritance  of  honour, 
bequeathed  to  us  through  a  thousand  years  of  noble 
history,  which  it  should  be  our  daily  thirst  to  increase 
with  splendid  avarice,  so  that  Englishmen,  if  it  be  a  sin 
to  covet  honour,  should  be  the  most  oifending  souls 
alive. ^  Within  the  last  few  years  we  have  had  the  laws 
^  He7iry  V,  4.  3.  29- 


INAUGURAL  245 

of  natural  science  opened  to  us  with  a  rapidity  which 
has  been  blinding  by  its  brightness;  and  means  of 
transit  and  communication  given  to  us,  which  have 
made  but  one  kingdom  of  the  habitable  globe.  One 
kingdom ;  —  but  who  is  to  be  its  king  ?  Is  there  to  be 
no  king  in  it,  think  you,  and  every  man  to  do  that  which 
is  right  in  his  own  eyes  ?  Or  only  kings  of  terror,  and 
the  obscene  empires  of  Mammon  and  Belial?  Or  will 
you,  youths  of  England,  make  your  country  again  a 
royal  throne  of  kings ;  a  sceptred  isle,  for  all  the  world 
a  source  of  light,  a  centre  of  peace ;  mistress  of  Learn- 
ing and  of  the  Arts ;  —  faithful  guardian  of  great  mem- 
ories in  the  midst  of  irreverent  and  ephemeral  visions; 
— faithful  servant  of  time-tried  principles,  under  temp- 
tation from  fond  experiments  and  licentious  desires; 
and  amidst  the  cruel  and  clamorous  jealousies  of  the 
nations,  worshipped  in  her  strange  valour  of  goodwill 
toward  men  ?  ^ 

"  Vexilla  regis  prodeunt."  ^  Yes,  but  of  which  king  ? 
There  are  the  two  oriflammes ;  which  shall  we  plant  on 
the  farthest  islands  —  the  one  that  floats  in  heavenly 
fire,  or  that  hangs  heavy  with  foul  tissue  of  terrestrial 
gold  ?  There  is  indeed  a  course  of  beneficent  glory  open 
to  us,  such  as  never  was  yet  offered  to  any  poor  group 
of  mortal  souls.  But  it  must  be  —  it  is  with  us,  now. 
"  Reign  or  Die."  And  if  it  shall  be  said  of  this  country, 
"  Fece  per  viltate,  il  gran  rifiuto,'*  ^  that  refusal  of  the 
crown  will  be,  of  all  yet  recorded  in  history,  the  shame- 
fullest  and  most  untimely. 

^  Lul-e  ii,  14. 

'  "  Forward  p;o  the  banners  of  the  Kinji;,"  or  more  commonly, 
"  The  royal  banners  forward  go."  One  of  the  seven  great  hymns 
of  the  Church.     See  the  Episcopal  Hymnal,  94. 

^  Dante,  Injerno,  3.  60.  "  Who  made  through  cowardice  the 
great  refusal."     Longfellow's  tr. 


246  LECTURES  ON  ART 

And  this  is  what  she  must  either  do,  or  perish  :  she 
must  found  colonies  as  fast  and  as  far  as  she  is  able, 
formed  of  her  most  energetic  and  worthiest  men ;  — 
seizing  every  piece  of  fruitful  waste  ground  she  can  set 
her  foot  on,  and  there  teaching  these  her  colonists  that 
their  chief  virtue  is  to  be  fidelity  to  their  country,  and 
that  their  first  aim  is  to  be  to  advance  the  power  of 
England  by  land  and  sea :  and  that,  though  they  live 
on  a  distant  plot  of  ground,  they  are  no  more  to  consider 
themselves  therefore  disfranchised  from  their  native 
land,  than  the  sailors  of  her  fleets  do,  because  they 
float  on  distant  waves.  So  that  literally,  these  colonies 
must  be  fastened  fleets ;  and  every  man  of  them  must 
be  under  authority  of  captains  and  oflScers,  whose  better 
command  is  to  be  over  fields  and  streets  instead  of  ships 
of  the  line;  and  England,  in  these  her  motionless 
navies  (or,  in  the  true  and  mightiest  sense,  motionless 
churches,  ruled  by  pilots  on  the  Galilean  lake  ^  of  all 
the  world),  is  to  "expect  every  man  to  do  his  duty  "  ;^ 
recognizing  that  duty  is  indeed  possible  no  less  in  peace 
than  war;  and  that  if  we  can  get  men,  for  little  pay, 
to  cast  themselves  against  cannon -mouths  for  love  of 
England,  we  may  find  men  also  who  will  plough  and 
sow  for  her,  who  will  behave  kindly  and  righteously  for 
her,  who  will  bring  up  their  children  to  love  her,  and 
who  will  gladden  themselves  in  the  brightness  of  her 
glory,  more  than  in  all  the  light  of  tropic  skies. 

But  that  they  may  be  able  to  do  this,  she  must  make 
her  own  majesty  stainless ;  she  must  give  them  thoughts 
of  their  home  of  which  they  can  be  proud.  The  Eng- 
land who  is  to  be  mistress  of  half  the  earth,  cannot  re- 
jaain  herself  a  heap  of  cinders,  trampled  by  contending 

^  Lycidas,  109. 

'  Nelson's  famous  agnal  at  Trafalgar. 


INAUGURAL  247 

and  miserable  crowds ;  she  must  yet  again  become  the 
England  she  was  once,  and  in  all  beautiful  ways,  — 
more:  so  happy,  so  secluded,  and  so  pure,  that  in  her 
sky  —  polluted  by  no  unholy  clouds  —  she  may  be 
able  to  spell  rightly  of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  show ; 
and  in  her  fields,  ordered  and  wide  and  fair,  of  every 
herb  that  sips  the  dew ;  ^  and  under  the  green  avenues 
of  her  enchanted  garden,  a  sacred  Circe,  true  Daughter 
of  the  Sun,  she  must  guide  the  human  arts,  and  gather 
the  divine  know  ledge,  of  distant  nations,  ^transformed 
from  savageness  to  manhood,  and  redeemed  from  de- 
spairing into  Peace. 

You  think  that  an  impossible  ideal.  Be  it  so;  refuse 
to  accept  it  if  you  will ;  but  see  that  you  form  your  own 
in  its  stead.  All  that  I  ask  of  you  is  to  have  a  fixed  pur- 
pose of  some  kind  for  your  country  and  yourselves ;  no 
matter  how  restricted,  so  that  it  be  fixed  and  unselfish. 
I  know  what  stout  hearts  are  in  you,  to  answer  acknow- 
ledged need  ;  but  it  is  the  fatallest  form  of  error  in  Eng- 
lish youth  to  hide  their  hardihood  till  it  fades  for  lack 
of  sunshine,  and  to  act  in  disdain  of  purpose,  till  all 
purpose  is  vain.  It  is  not  by  deliberate,  but  by  careless 
selfishness;  not  by  compromise  with  evil,  but  by  dull 
following  of  good,  that  the  weight  of  national  evil  in- 
creases upon  us  daily.  Break  through  at  least  this  pre- 
tence of  existence;  determine  what  you  will  be,  and 
what  you  would  win.  You  will  not  decide  wrongly  if 
you  resolve  to  decide  at  all.  Were  even  the  choice  be- 
tween lawless  pleasure  and  loyal  suffering,  you  would 
not,  I  believe,  choose  basely.  But  your  trial  is  not  so 
sharp.  It  is  between  drifting  in  confused  wreck  among 
the  castaways  of  Fortune,  who  condemns  to  assured 
ruin  those  who  know  not  either  how  to  resist  her,  or 
'  Milton's  II  Penseroso,  170  ff. 


248  LECTURES  ON  ART 

oboy ;  between  this,  I  say,  and  the  taking  of  your  ap- 
pointed part  in  the  heroism  of  Rest ;  the  resolving  to 
share  in  the  victory  which  is  to  the  weak  rather  than 
the  strong;  and  the  binding  yourselves  by  that  law, 
which,  thought  on  through  lingering  night  and  labour- 
ing day,  makes  a  man's  life  to  be  as  a  tree  planted  by 
the  water-side,  that  bringeth  forth  his  fruit  in  his  sea- 
son ;  — 

"  ET   FOLIUM    EJUS   NON    DEFLUET, 
ET  OMNIA,  QUiECUNQUE  FACIET,  PROSPERABUNTUR."  ^ 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  MORALS 

And  now  I  pass  to  the  arts  wMth  which  I  have  special 
concern,  in  which,  though  the  facts  are  exactly  the 
same,  I  shall  have  more  difficulty  in  proving  my  asser- 
tion, because  very  few  of  us  are  as  cognizant  of  the 
merit  of  painting  as  we  are  of  that  of  language ;  and  I 
can  only  show  you  whence  that  merit  springs,  after 
having  thoroughly  shown  you  in  what  it  consists.  But, 
in  the  meantime,  I  have  simply  to  tell  you,  that  the 
manual  arts  are  as  accurate  exponents  of  ethical  state, 
as  other  modes  of  expression ;  first,  with  absolute  pre- 
cision, of  that  of  the  workman ;  and  then  with  preci- 
sion, disguised  by  many  distorting  influences,  of  that 
of  the  nation  to  which  it  belongs. 

And,  first,  they  are  a  perfect  exponent  of  the  mind  of 
the  w^orkman :  but,  being  so,  remember,  if  the  mind  be 
great  or  complex,  the  art  is  not  an  easy  book  to  read ; 
for  we  must  ourselves  possess  all  the  mental  characters 
of  which  we  are  to  read  the  signs.  No  man  can  read 
the  evidence  of  labour  who  is  not  himself  laborious, 

1  Psalms  i,  3. 


ART  AND  MORALS  249 

for  he  does  not  know  what  the  work  cost :  nor  can  he 
read  the  evidence  of  true  passion  if  he  is  not  passionate ; 
nor  of  gentleness  if  he  is  not  gentle  :  and  the  most  subtle 
signs  of  fault  and  weakness  of  character  he  can  only 
judge  by  having  had  the  same  faults  to  fight  with.  I 
myself,  for  instance,  know  impatient  work,  and  tired 
work,  better  than  most  critics,  because  I  am  myself 
always  impatient,  and  often  tired :  —  so  also,  the  pa- 
tient and  indefatigable  touch  of  a  mighty  master  be- 
comes more  wonderful  to  me  than  to  others.  Yet,  won- 
derful in  no  mean  measure  it  will  be  to  you  all,  when  I 
make  it  manifest ;  —  and  as  soon  as  we  begin  our  real 
work,  and  you  have  learned  what  it  is  to  draw  a  true 
line,  I  shall  be  able  to  make  manifest  to  you,  —  and 
undisputably  so,  —  that  the  day's  work  of  a  man  like 
Mantegna  or  Paul  Veronese  consists  of  an  unfaltering, 
uninterrupted,  succession  of  movements  of  the  hand 
more  precise  than  those  of  the  finest  fencer :  the  pencil 
leaving  one  point  and  arriving  at  another,  not  only  with 
unerring  precision  at  the  extremity  of  the  line,  but  with 
an  unerring  and  yet  varied  course  —  sometimes  over 
spaces  a  foot  or  more  in  extent  —  yet  a  course  so  de- 
termined everywhere  that  either  of  these  men  could, 
and  Veronese  often  does,  draw  a  finished  profile,  or 
any  other  portion  of  the  contour  of  the  face,  with  one 
line,  not  afterwards  changed.  Try,  first,  to  realize  to 
yourselves  the  muscular  precision  of  that  action,  and 
the  intellectual  strain  of  it ;  for  the  movement  of  a  fencer 
is  perfect  in  practised  monotony ;  but  the  movement  of 
the  hand  of  a  great  painter  is  at  every  instant  governed 
by  direct  and  new  intention.  Then  imagine  that  mus- 
cular firmness  and  subtlety,  and  the  instantaneously 
selective  and  ordinant  energy  of  the  brain,  sustained 
all  day  long,  not  only  without  fatigue,  but  with  a  visible 


250  LECTURES   ON   ART 

joy  in  the  exertion,  like  that  which  an  eagle  seems  to 
take  in  the  wave  of  his  wings  ;  and  this  all  life  long,  and 
through  long  life,  not  only  without  failure  of  power,  but 
with  visible  increase  of  it,  until  the  actually  organic 
changes  of  old  age.  And  then  consider,  so  far  as  you 
know  anything  of  physiology,  what  sort  of  an  ethical 
state  of  body  and  mind  that  means !  —  ethic  through 
ages  past !  what  fineness  of  race  there  must  be  to  get 
it,  what  exquisite  balance  and  symmetry  of  the  vital 
powers!  And  then,  finally,  determine  for  yourselves 
whether  a  manhood  like  that  is  consistent  with  any 
viciousness  of  soul,  with  any  mean  anxiety,  any  gnaw- 
ing lust,  any  wretchedness  of  spite  or  remorse,  any  con- 
sciousness of  rebellion  against  law  of  God  or  man,  or 
any  actual,  though  unconscious  violation  of  even  the 
least  law  to  which  obedience  is  essential  for  the  glory 
of  life,  and  the  pleasing  of  its  Giver. 

It  is,  of  course,  true  that  many  of  the  strong  masters 
had  deep  faults  of  character,  but  their  faults  always 
show  in  their  w^ork.  It  is  true  that  some  could  not  gov- 
ern their  passions;  if  so,  they  died  young,  or  they 
painted  ill  when  old.  But  the  greater  part  of  our  mis- 
apprehension in  the  whole  matter  is  from  our  not  hav- 
ing well  known  who  the  great  painters  were,  and  taking 
delight  in  the  petty  skill  that  was  bred  in  the  fumes  of 
the  taverns  of  the  North,  instead  of  theirs  who  breathed 
empyreal  air,  sons  of  the  morning,  under  the  woods 
of  Assisi  and  the  crags  of  Cadore. 

It  is  true  however  also,  as  I  have  pointed  out  long 
ago,  that  the  strong  masters  fall  into  two  great  divisions, 
one  leading  simple  and  natural  lives,  the  other  re- 
strained in  a  Puritanism  of  the  worship  of  beauty ;  and 
these  two  manners  of  life  you  may  recognize  in  a  mo- 
ment by  their  work.   Generally  the  naturalists  are  the 


ART  AND   MORALS  251 

strongest ;  but  there  are  two  of  the  Puritans,  whose  work 
if  I  can  succeed  in  making  clearly  understandable  to 
you  during  my  three  years  ^  here,  it  is  all  I  need  care  to 
do.  But  of  these  two  Puritans  one  I  cannot  name  to 
you,  and  the  other  I  at  present  will  not.  One  I  cannot, 
for  no  one  knows  his  name,  except  the  baptismal  one, 
Bernard,  or  "dear  little  Bernard"  —  Bernardino, 
called  from  his  birthplace,  (Luino,  on  the  Lago  Mag- 
giore,)  Bernard  of  Luino.  The  other  is  a  Venetian,  of 
whom  many  of  you  probably  have  never  heard,  and  of 
whom,  through  me,  you  shall  not  hear,  until  I  have 
tried  to  get  some  picture  by  him  over  to  England. 

Observe  then,  this  Puritanism  in  the  worship  of 
beauty,  though  sometimes  weak,  is  always  honourable 
and  amiable,  and  the  exact  reverse  of  the  false  Puritan- 
ism, which  consists  in  the  dread  or  disdain  of  beauty. 
And  in  order  to  treat  my  subject  rightly,  I  ought  to 
proceed  from  the  skill  of  art  to  the  choice  of  its  subject, 
and  show  you  how  the  moral  temper  of  the  workman 
is  shown  by  his  seeking  lovely  forms  and  thoughts  to 
express,  as  well  as  by  the  force  of  his  hand  in  expres- 
sion. But  I  need  not  now  urge  this  part  of  the  proof  on 
you,  because  you  are  already,  I  believe,  sufficiently  con- 
scious of  the  truth  in  this  matter,  and  also  I  have  al- 
ready said  enough  of  it  in  my  writings ;  whereas  I  have 
not  at  all  said  enough  of  the  infallibleness  of  fine  tech- 
nical work  as  a  proof  of  every  other  good  power.  And 
indeed  it  was  long  before  I  myself  understood  the  true 
meaning  of  the  pride  of  the  greatest  men  in  their  mere 
execution,  shown  for  a  permanent  lesson  to  us,  in  the 
stories  which,  whether  true  or  not,  indicate  with  abso- 
lute accuracy  the  general  conviction  of  great  artists ;  — 

^  As  Slade  Professor,  Ruskin  held  a  three  years'  appointment  at 
Oxfordo 


252  LECTURES   ON   ART 

the  stories  of  the  contest  of  Apelles  and  Protogenes  * 
in  a  line  only,  (of  which  I  can  promise  you,  you  shall 
know  the  meaning  to  some  purpose  in  a  little  while), — 
the  story  of  the  circle  of  Giotto,-  and  especially,  which 
you  may  perhaps  not  have  observed,  the  expression  of 
Diirer  in  his  inscription  on  the  drawings  sent  him  by 
Raphael.  These  figures,  he  says,  "  Raphael  drew  and 
sent  to  Albert  Diirer  in  Niirnberg,  to  show  him "  — 
What  ?  Not  his  invention,  nor  his  beauty  of  expression, 
but  *'  sein  Hand  zu  weisen,"  "  to  show  him  his  hand." 
And  you  will  find,  as  you  examine  farther,  that  all  in- 
ferior artists  are  continually  trying  to  escape  from  the 
necessity  of  sound  work,  and  either  indulging  them- 
selves in  their  delights  in  subject,  or  pluming  them- 
selves on  their  noble  motives  for  attempting  what  they 
cannot  perform  ;  (and  observe,  by  the  way,  that  a  great 
deal  of  what  is  mistaken  for  conscientious  motive  is 
nothing  but  a  very  pestilent,  because  very  subtle,  con- 
dition of  vanity) ;  whereas  the  great  men  always  under- 
stand at  once  that  the  first  morality  of  a  painter,  as  of 
everybody  else,  is  to  know  his  business ;  and  so  earnest 
are  they  in  this,  that  many,  whose  lives  you  would 
think,  by  the  results  of  their  work,  had  been  passed  in 
strong  emotion,  have  in  reality  subdued  themselves, 
though  capable  of  the  very  strongest  passions,  into  a 
calm  as  absolute  as  that  of  a  deeply  sheltered  mountain 
lake,  which  reflects  every  agitation  of  the  clouds  in  the 
sky,  and  every  change  of  the  shadows  on  the  hills,  but 
^s  itself  motionless. 

*  This  story  comes  from  Pliny,  Natural  History,  35.  36;  the 
two  rival  painters  alternately  showing  their  skill  by  the  drawing 
of  lines  of  increasing  fineness. 

2  This  story  comes  from  Vasari's  Lives  of  the  Painters.  See  Blash- 
field  and  Hopkins's  ed.  vol.  1,  p.  61.  Giotto  was  asked  by  a  mes- 
senger of  the  Pope  for  a  specimen  of  his  work,  and  sent  a  perfect 
circle,  drawn  free  hand. 


ART  AND  MORALS  253 

Finally,  you  must  remember  that  great  obscurity 
has  been  brought  upon  the  truth  in  this  matter  by  the 
want  of  integrity  and  simplicity  in  our  modern  life.  I 
mean  integrity  in  the  Latin  sense,  wholeness.  Every- 
thing is  broken  up,  and  mingled  in  confusion,  both  in 
our  habits  and  thoughts;  besides  being  in  great  part 
imitative  :  so  that  you  not  only  cannot  tell  what  a  man 
is,  but  sometimes  you  cannot  tell  whether  he  is,  at  all ! 
—  whether  you  have  indeed  to  do  with  a  spirit,  or  only 
with  an  echo.  And  thus  the  same  inconsistencies  ap- 
pear now,  between  the  work  of  artists  of  merit  and 
their  personal  characters,  as  those  which  you  find  con- 
tinually disappointing  expectation  in  the  lives  of  men 
of  modern  literary  power ;  ^-  the  same  conditions  of  so- 
ciety having  obscured  or  misdirected  the  best  qualities 
of  the  imagination,  both  in  our  literature  and  art.  Thus 
there  is  no  serious  question  with  any  of  us  as  to  the  per- 
sonal character  of  Dante  and  Giotto,  of  Shakspere 
and  Holbein;  but  we  pause  timidly  in  the  attempt  to 
analyze  the  moral  laws  of  the  art  skill  in  recent  poets, 
novelists,  and  painters. 

Let  me  assure  you  once  for  all,  that  as  you  grow 
older,  if  you  enable  yourselves  to  distinguish  by  the 
truth  of  your  own  lives,  what  is  true  in  those  of  other 
men,  you  will  gradually  perceive  that  all  good  has  its 
origin  in  good,  never  in  evil ;  that  the  fact  of  either  lit- 
erature or  painting  being  truly  fine  of  their  kind,  what- 
ever their  mistaken  aim,  or  partial  error,  is  proof  of 
their  noble  origin :  and  that,  if  there  is  indeed  sterling 
lvalue  in  the  thing  done,  it  has  come  of  a  sterling  worth 
in  the  soul  that  did  it,  however  alloyed  or  defiled  by 
conditions  of  sin  which  are  sometimes  more  appalling 
or  more  strange  than  those  which  all  may  detect  in 
their  own  hearts,  because  they  are  part  of  a  personality 


254  LECTURES   ON   ART 

altoircthor  larirer  than  ours,  and  as  far  beyond  our 
jii(i<;nuMit  in  its  darkness  as  beyond  our  following  in 
its  light.  And  it  is  sufficient  warning  against  what 
some  might  dread  as  the  probable  effect  of  such  a  con 
viction  on  your  own  minds,  namely,  that  you  might 
permit  yourselves  in  the  weaknesses  which  you  im- 
agined to  be  allied  to  genius,  when  they  took  the  form 
of  personal  temptations ;  —  it  is  surely,  I  say,  sufficient 
warning  against  so  mean  a  folly,  to  discern,  as  you  may 
with  little  pains,  that,  of  all  human  existences,  the 
lives  of  men  of  that  distorted  and  tainted  nobility  of 
intellect  are  probably  the  most  miserable. 

I  pass  to  the  second,  and  for  us  the  more  practically 
important  question.  What  is  the  effect  of  noble  art  upon 
other  men ;  what  has  it  done  for  national  morality  in 
time  past :  and  w^hat  effect  is  the  extended  knowledge 
or  possession  of  it  likely  to  have  upon  us  now.'^  And 
here  we  are  at  once  met  by  the  facts,  which  are  as 
gloomy  as  indisputable,  that,  while  many  peasant 
populations,  among  whom  scarcely  the  rudest  practice 
of  art  has  ever  been  attempted,  have  lived  in  compara- 
tive innocence,  honour,  and  happiness,  the  worst  foul- 
ness and  cruelty  of  savage  tribes  have  been  frequently 
associated  with  fine  ingenuities  of  decorative  design; 
also,  that  no  people  has  ever  attained  the  higher  stages 
of  art  skill,  except  at  a  period  of  its  civilization  which 
was  sullied  by  frequent,  violent,  and  even  monstrous 
crime ;  and,  lastly,  that  the  attaining  of  perfection  in  art 
power,  has  been  hitherto,  in  every  nation,  the  accurate 
signal  of  the  beginning  of  its  ruin. 

Respecting  which  phenomena,  observe  first,  that 
although  good  never  springs  out  of  evil,  it  Is  developed 
to  its  highest  by  contention  with  evil.  There  are  some 
groups  of  peasantry,  in  far-away  nooks  of  Christian 


ART  AND  MORALS  255 

countries,  who  are  nearly  as  innocent  as  lambs ;  but  the 
morality  which  gives  power  to  art  is  the  morality  of 
men,  not  of  cattle. 

Secondly,  the  virtues  of  the  inhabitants  of  many 
country  districts  are  apparent,  not  real ;  their  lives  are 
indeed  artless,  but  not  innocent;  and  it  is  only  the 
monotony  of  circumstances,  and  the  absence  of  tempta- 
tion, which  prevent  the  exhibition  of  evil  passions  not 
less  real  because  often  dormant,  nor  less  foul  because 
shown  only  in  petty  faults,  or  inactive  malignities. 

But  you  will  observe  also  that  absolute  artlessness, 
to  men  in  any  kind  of  moral  health,  is  impossible; 
they  have  always,  at  least,  the  art  by  which  they  live 
—  agriculture  or  seamanship;  and  in  these  industries, 
skilfully  practised,  you  will  find  the  law  of  their  moral 
training;  while,  whatever  the  adversity  of  circum- 
stances, every  rightly-minded  peasantry,  such  as  that 
of  Sweden,  Denmark,  Bavaria,  or  Switzerland,  has  as- 
sociated with  its  needful  industry  a  quite  studied  school 
of  pleasurable  art  in  dress ;  and  generally  also  in  song, 
and  simple  domestic  architecture. 

Again,  I  need  not  repeat  to  you  here  what  I  en- 
deavoured to  explain  in  the  first  lecture  in  the  book 
I  called  The  Two  Paths,  respecting  the  arts  of  savage 
races  :  but  I  may  now  note  briefly  that  such  arts  are  the 
result  of  an  intellectual  activity  which  has  found  no 
room  to  expand,  and  which  the  tyranny  of  nature  or 
of  man  has  condemned  'to  disease  through  arrested 
growth.  And  where  neither  Christianity,  nor  any  other 
religion  conveying  some  moral  help,  has  reached,  the 
animal  energy  of  such  races  necessarily  flames  into 
ghastly  conditions  of  evil,  and  the  grotesque  or  fright- 
ful forms  assumed  by  their  art  are  precisely  indicative 
of  their  distorted  moral  nature. 


256  LECTURES   ON   ART 

But  the  truly  great  nations  nearly  always  begin 
from  a  race  possessing  this  imaginative  power;  and 
for  some  time  their  progress  is  very  slow,  and  their 
state  not  one  of  innocence,  but  of  feverish  and  faultful 
animal  energy.  This  is  gradually  subdued  and  exalted 
into  bright  human  life;  the  art  instinct  purifying  itself 
with  the  rest  of  the  nature,  until  social  perfectness  is 
nearly  reached ;  and  then  comes  the  period  when  con- 
science and  intellect  are  so  highly  developed,  that  new 
forms  of  error  begin  in  the  inability  to  fulfil  the  de- 
mands of  the  one,  or  to  answer  the  doubts  of  the  other. 
Then  the  wholeness  of  the  people  is  lost;  all  kinds  of 
hypocrisies  and  oppositions  of  science  develope  them- 
selves; their  faith  is  questioned  on  one  side,  and  com- 
promised with  on  the  other ;  wealth  commonly  increases 
at  the  same  period  to  a  destructive  extent;  luxury 
follows;  and  the  ruin  of  the  nation  is  then  certain: 
while  the  arts,  all  this  time,  are  simply,  as  I  said  at  first, 
the  exponents  of  each  phase  of  its  moral  state,  and  no 
more  control  it  in  its  political  career  than  the  gleam 
of  the  firefly  guides  its  oscillation.  It  is  true  that  their 
most  splendid  results  are  usually  obtained  in  the  swift- 
ness of  the  power  which  is  hurrying  to  the  precipice; 
but  to  lay  the  charge  of  the  catastrophe  to  the  art  by 
which  it  is  illumined,  is  to  find  a  cause  for  the  cataract 
in  the  hues  of  its  iris.  It  is  true  that  the  colossal  vices 
belonging  to  periods  of  great  national  wealth  (for 
wealth,  you  will  find,  is  the  real  root  of  all  evil)  ^  can 
turn  every  good  gift  and  skill  of  nature  or  of  man 
to  evil  purpose.  If,  in  such  times,  fair  pictures  have 
been  misused,  how  much  more  fair  realities?  And  if 
Miranda  is  immoral  to  Caliban  is  that  Miranda's 
fault  ? 

'  1  Timothij  vi,  10. 


ART  AND   USE  257 


THE  RELATION  OF  ART  TO  USE 

Our  subject  of  inquiry  to-day,  you  will  remember, 
is  the  mode  in  which  fine  art  is  founded  upon,  or  may 
contribute  to,  the  practical  requirements  of  human  life. 

Its  offices  in  this  respect  are  mainly  twofold  :  it 
gives  Form  to  knowledge,  and  Grace  to  utility;  that 
is  to  say,  it  makes  permanently  visible  to  us  things 
which  otherwise  could  neither  be  described  by  our 
science,  nor  retained  by  our  memory;  and  it  gives  de- 
lightfulness  and  worth  to  the  implements  of  daily  use, 
and  materials  of  dress,  furniture  and  lodging.  In  the 
first  of  these  offices  it  gives  precision  and  charm  to 
truth;  in  the  second  it  gives  precision  and  charm  to 
service.  For,  the  moment  we  make  anything  useful 
thoroughly,  it  is  a  law  of  nature  that  we  shall  be  pleased 
with  ourselves,  and  with  the  thing  we  have  made;  and 
become  desirous  therefore  to  adorn  or  complete  it,  in 
some  dainty  way,  with  finer  art  expressive  of  our  plea- 
sure. 

And  the  point  I  wish  chiefly  to  bring  before  you  to- 
day is  this  close  and  healthy  connection  of  the  fine 
arts  with  material  use;  but  I  must  first  try  briefly  to 
put  in  clear  light  the  function  of  art  in  giving  Form  to 
truth. 

Much  that  I  have  hitherto  tried  to  teach  has  been 
disputed  on  the  ground  that  I  have  attached  too  much 
importance  to  art  as  representing  natural  facts,  and  too 
little  to  it  as  a  source  of  pleasure.  And  I  wish,  in  the 
close  of  these  four  prefatory  lectures,  strongly  to  assert 
to  you,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  in  the  time,  convince  you, 
that  the  entire  vitality  of  art  depends  upon  its  being 
either  full  of  truth,  or  full  of  use;  and  that,  however 


258  LECTURES   ON  ART 

plccasant,  wonderful,  or  impressive  it  may  be  in  itself,  it 
must  yet  be  of  inferior  kind,  and  tend  to  deeper  inferi- 
ority, unless  it  has  clearly  one  of  these  main  objects,  — 
either  to  state  a  true  thing,  or  to  adorn  a  serviceable  one. 
It  must  never  exist  alone,  —  never  for  itself;  it  exists 
rightly  only  when  it  is  the  means  of  knowledge,  or  the 
grace  of  agency  for  life. 

Now,  I  pray  you  to  observe  —  for  though  I  have 
said  this  often  before,  I  have  never  yet  said  it  clearly 
enough  —  every  good  piece  of  art,  to  whichever  of 
these  ends  it  may  be  directed,  involves  first  essentially 
the  evidence  of  human  skill,  and  the  formation  of  an 
actually  beautiful  thing  by  it. 

Skill  and  beauty,  always,  then;  and,  beyond  these, 
the  formative  arts  have  always  one  or  other  of  the  two 
objects  which  I  have  just  defined  to  you  —  truth, 
or  serviceableness ;  and  without  these  aims  neither  the 
skill  nor  their  beauty  will  avail;  only  by  these  can 
either  legitimately  reign.  All  the  graphic  arts  begin 
in  keeping  the  outline  of  shadow  that  we  have  loved, 
and  they  end  in  giving  to  it  the  aspect  of  life;  and  all 
the  architectural  arts  begin  in  the  shaping  of  the  cup 
and  the  platter,  and  they  end  in  a  glorified  roof. 

Therefore,  you  see,  in  the  graphic  arts  you  have 
Skill,  Beauty,  and  Likeness;  and  in  the  architectural 
arts  Skill,  Beauty,  and  Use  :  and  you  must  have  the  three 
in  each  group,  balanced  and  co-ordinate;  and  all  the 
chief  errors  of  art  consist  in  losing  or  exaggerating  one 
of  these  elements. 

For  instance,  almost  the  whole  system  and  hope 
of  modern  life  are  founded  on  the  notion  that  you  may 
substitute  mechanism  for  skill,  photograph  for  picture, 
cast-iron  for  sculpture.  That  is  your  main  nineteenth- 
century  faith,  or  infidelity.    You  think  you  can  get 


ART  AND   USE  259 

everything  by  grinding  —  music,  literature,  and  paint- 
ing. You  will  find  it  grievously  not  so;  you  can  get 
nothing  but  dust  by  mere  grinding.  Even  to  have  the 
barley-meal  out  of  it,  you  must  have  the  barley  first; 
and  that  comes  by  growth,  not  grinding.  But  essen- 
tially, we  have  lost  our  delight  in  Skill;  in  that  majesty 
of  it  which  I  was  trying  to  make  clear  to  you  in  my  last 
address,  and  which  long  ago  ^  I  tried  to  express,  under 
the  head  of  ideas  of  power.  The  entire  sense  of  that, 
we  have  lost,  because  we  ourselves  do  not  take  pains 
enough  to  do  right,  and  have  no  conception  of  whdt  the 
right  costs ;  so  that  all  the  joy  and  reverence  we  ought 
to  feel  in  looking  at  a  strong  man's  work  have  ceased 
in  us.  We  keep  them  yet  a  little  in  looking  at  a  honey- 
comb or  a  bird's-nest;  we  understand  that  these  differ, 
by  divinity  of  skill,  from  a  lump  of  wax  or  a  cluster  of 
sticks.  But  a  picture,  which  is  a  much  more  wonderful 
thing  than  a  honeycomb  or  a  bird's-nest,  —  have  we 
not  known  people,  and  sensible  people  too,  who  ex- 
pected to  be  taught  to  produce  that,  in  six  lessons  ? 

Well,  you  must  have  the  skill,  you  must  have  the 
beauty,  which  is  the  highest  moral  element;  and  then, 
lastly,  you  must  have  the  verity  or  utility,  which  is  not 
the  moral,  but  the  vital  element ;  and  this  desire  for 
verity  and  use  is  the  one  aim  of  the  three  that  always 
leads  in  great  schools,  and  in  the  minds  of  great  masters, 
without  any  exception.  They  will  permit  themselves 
in  awkwardness,  they  will  permit  themselves  in  ugliness ; 
—  but  they  will  never  permit  themselves  in  uselessness 
or  in  un veracity. 

And  farther,  as  their  skill  increases,  and  as  their 
grace,  so  much  more  their  desire  for  truth.  It  is  im- 
possible to  find  the  three  motives  in  fairer  balance  and 
*  In  Modem  Painters,  vol.  1. 


260  LECTURES   ON   ART 

harmony  than  in  our  own  Reynolds.  He  rejoices  in 
showing  you  his  skill;  and  those  of  you  who  succeed 
in  learning  what  painters'  work  really  is,  will  one  day 
rejoice  also,  even  to  laughter  —  that  highest  laughter 
which  springs  of  pure  delight,  in  w^atching  the  fortitude 
and  the  fire  of  a  hand  which  strikes  forth  its  will  upon 
the  canvas  as  easily  as  the  wind  strikes  it  on  the  sea. 
He  rejoices  in  all  abstract  beauty  and  rhythm  and 
melody  of  design ;  he  will  never  give  you  a  colour  that 
is  not  lovely,  nor  a  shade  that  is  unnecessary,  nor  a  line 
that  is  ungraceful.  But  all  his  power  and  all  his  in- 
vention are  held  by  him  subordinate,  —  and  the  more 
obediently  because  of  their  nobleness,  —  to  his  true 
leading  purpose  of  setting  before  you  such  likeness  of 
the  living  presence  of  an  English  gentleman  or  an 
English  lady,  as  shall  be  worthy  of  being  looked  upon 
for  ever. 

But  farther,  you  remember,  I  hope  —  for  I  said  it 
in  a  way  that  I  thought  would  shock  you  a  little,  that 
you  might  remember  it  —  my  statement,  that  art  had 
never  done  more  than  this,  never  more  than  given  the 
likeness  of  a  noble  human  being.  Not  only  so,  but  it 
very  seldom  does  so  much  as  this,  and  the  best  pictures 
that  exist  of  the  great  schools  are  all  portraits,  or  groups 
of  portraits,  often  of  very  simple  and  nowise  noble 
persons.  You  may  have  much  more  brilliant  and  im- 
pressive qualities  in  imaginative  pictures ;  you  may  have 
figures  scattered  like  clouds,  or  garlanded  like  flowers ; 
you  may  have  light  and  shade  as  of  a  tempest,  and 
colour,  as  of  the  rainbow;  but  all  that  is  child's  play  to 
the  great  men,  though  it  is  astonishment  to  us.  Their 
real  strength  is  tried  to  the  utmost,  and  as  far  as  I 
know,  it  is  never  elsewhere  brought  out  so  thoroughly, 
as  in  painting  one  man  or  woman,  and  the  soul  that 


ART   AND  USE  261 

was  in  them;  nor  that  always  the  highest  soul,  but 
often  only  a  thwarted  one  that  was  capable  of  height ; 
or  perhaps  not  even  that,  but  faultful  and  poor,  yet  seen 
through,  to  the  poor  best  of  it,  by  the  masterful  sight. 
So  that  in  order  to  put  before  you  in  your  Standard 
series  the  best  art  possible,  I  am  obliged,  even  from 
the  very  strongest  men,  to  take  the  portraits,  before  I 
take  the  idealism.  Nay,  whatever  is  best  in  the  great 
compositions  themselves  has  depended  on  portraiture ; 
and  the  study  necessary  to  enable  you  to  understand 
invention  will  also  convince  you  that  the  mind  of  man 
never  invented  a  greater  thing  than  the  form  of  man, 
animated  by  faithful  life.  Every  attempt  to  refine  or 
exalt  such  healthy  humanity  has  weakened  or  carica- 
tured it;  or  else  consists  only  in  giving  it,  to  please  our 
fancy,  the  wings  of  birds,  or  the  eyes  of  antelopes. 
Whatever  is  truly  great  in  either  Greek  or  Christian 
art,  is  also  restrictedly  human;  and  even  the  raptures 
of  the  redeemed  souls  who  enter  "  celestemente  bal- 
lando,"  ^  the  gate  of  Angelico's  Paradise,  were  seen 
first  in  the  terrestrial,  yet  most  pure,  mirth  of  Florentine 
maidens. 

I  am  aware  that  this  cannot  but  at  present  appear 
gravely  questionable  to  those  of  my  audience  who  are 
strictly  cognizant  of  the  phases  of  Greek  art ;  for  they 
know  that  the  moment  of  its  decline  is  accurately 
marked,  by  its  turning  from  abstract  form  to  portraiture. 
But  the  reason  of  this  is  simple.  The  progressive  course 
of  Greek  art  was  in  subduing  monstrous  conceptions 
to  natural  ones;  it  did  this  by  general  laws;  it  reached 
absolute  truth  of  generic  human  form,  and  if  its  eth- 

^  The  quotation  is  from  Vasari's  account  of  Anijelico's  last 
Judgment  (now  in  the  Accademia  at  Florence).  [Cook  and  Wed- 
derburn.l 


262  LECTURES   ON  ART 

ical  force  had  remained,  would  have  advanced  into 
healthy  portraiture.  But  at  the  moment  of  change  the 
national  life  ended  in  Greece;  and  portraiture,  there, 
meant  insult  to  her  religion,  and  flattery  to  her  tyrants. 
And  her  skill  perished,  not  because  she  became  true 
in  sight,  but  because  she  became  vile  in  heart.  .  .  . 

But  I  have  told  you  enough,  it  seems  to  me,  at  least 
to-day,  of  this  function  of  art  in  recording  fact ;  let  me 
now  finally,  and  with  all  distinctness  possible  to  me, 
state  to  you  its  main  business  of  all ;  —  its  service  in 
the  actual  uses  of  daily  life. 

You  are  surprised,  perhaps,  to  hear  me  call  this  its 
main  business.  That  is  indeed  so,  however.  The  giving 
brightness  to  picture  is  much,  but  the  giving  brightness 
to  life  more.  And  remember,  were  it  as  patterns  only, 
you  cannot,  without  the  realities,  have  the  pictures. 
You  cannot  have  a  landscape  by  Turner  without  a 
country  for  him  to  paint;  you  cannot  have  a  portrait  by 
Titian,  without  a  manto  bepourtrayed.  I  need  not  prove 
that  to  you,  I  suppose,  in  these  short  terms;  but  in  the 
outcome  I  can  get  no  soul  to  believe  that  the  beginning 
of  art  is  in  getting  our  country  clean,  and  our  people 
beautiful.  I  have  been  ten  years  trying  to  get  this  very 
plain  certainty  —  I  do  not  say  believed  —  but  even 
thought  of,  as  anything  but  a  monstrous  proposition. 
To  get  your  /country  clean,  and  your  people  lovely ;  — 
I  assure  you  that  is  a  necessary  work  of  art  to  begin  with ! 
There  has  indeed  been  art  in  countries  where  people 
lived  in  dirt  to  serve  God,  but  never  in  countries  where 
they  lived  in  dirt  to  serve  the  devil.  There  has  indeed 
been  art  where  the  people  were  not  all  lovely, —  where 
even  their  lips  were  thick  —  and  their  skins  black, 
because  the  sun  had  looked  upon  them ;  ^  but  never  in  a 
^  Song  of  Solomon  i,  6. 


ART  AND   USE  263 

country  where  the  people  were  pale  with  miserable  toil 
and  deadly  shade,  and  where  the  lips  of  youth,  instead 
of  being  full  with  blood,  were  pinched  by  famine,  or 
warped  with  poison.  And  now,  therefore,  note  this 
well,  the  gist  of  all  these  long  prefatory  talks.  I  said 
that  the  two  great  moral  instincts  were  those  of  Order 
and  Kindness.  Now,  all  the  arts  are  founded  on  agri- 
culture by  the  hand,  and  on  the  graces  and  kindness 
of  feeding,  and  dressing,  and  lodging  your  people. 
Greek  art  begins  in  the  gardens  of  Alcinous  —  perfect 
order,  leeks  in  beds,  and  fountains  in  pipes. ^  And 
Christian  art,  as  it  arose  out  of  chivalry,  was  only 
possible  so  far  as  chivalry  compelled  both  kings  and 
knights  to  care  for  the  right  personal  training  of  their 
people;  it  perished  utterly  when  those  kings  and 
knights  became  Srnmofiopot,  devourers  of  the  people. 
And  it  will  become  possible  again  only,  when,  literally, 
the  sword  is  beaten  into  the  ploughshare,^  when  your 
St.  George  of  England  shall  justify  his  name,^  and 
Christian  art  shall  be  known  as  its  Master  was,  in 
breaking  of  bread.'* 

Now  look  at  the  working  out  of  this  broad  principle 
in  minor  detail ;  observe  how,  from  highest  to  lowest, 
health  of  art  has  first  depended  on  reference  to  indus- 
trial use.  There  is  first  the  need  of  cup  and  platter, 
especially  of  cup;  for  you  can  put  your  meat  on  the 
Harpies',^  or  any  other,  tables;  but  you  must  have 
your  cup  to  drink  from.  And  to  hold  it  conveniently, 
you  must  put  a  handle  to  it;  and  to  fill  it  when  it  is 

^  Cf.  Classical  Landscape,  pp.  92-93, 

2  Isaiah  ii,  -i;  Micah  iv,  3;  Joel  iii,  10. 

3  The  name  of  St.  George,  the  " Earthworker,"  or  "Husband- 
man."   [Ruskin.] 

*  Luke  xxiv,  35. 

^  Virgil,  /Eneid,  3,  209.  seqq.  [Ruskin.] 


264  LECTURES  ON  ART 

empty  you  must  have  a  large  pitcher  of  some  sort ;  and 
to  carry  the  pitcher  you  may  most  advisably  have  two 
handles.  Modify  the  forms  of  these  needful  posses- 
sions according  to  the  various  requirements  of  drinking 
largely  and  drinking  delicately ;  of  pouring  easily  out, 
or  of  keeping  for  years  the  perfume  in;  of  storing  in 
cellars,  or  bearing  from  fountains;  of  sacrificial  liba- 
tion, of  Pan-athenaic  treasure  of  oil,  and  sepulchral 
treasure  of  ashes,  —  and  you  have  a  resultant  series 
of  beautiful  form  and  decoration,  from  the  rude  am- 
phora of  red  earth  up  to  Cellini's  vases  of  gems  and 
crystal,  in  which  series,  but  especially  in  the  more  sim- 
ple conditions  of  it,  are  developed  the  most  beautiful 
lines  and  most  perfect  types  of  severe  composition 
which  have  yet  been  attained  by  art. 

But  again,  that  you  may  fill  your  cup  with  pure 
water,  you  must  go  to  the  well  or  spring;  you  need  a 
fence  round  the  well;  you  need  some  tube  or  trough, 
or  other  means  of  confining  the  stream  at  the  spring. 
For  the  conveyance  of  the  current  to  any  distance  you 
must  build  either  enclosed  or  open  aqueduct ;  and  in 
the  hot  square  of  the  city  where  you  set  it  free,  you 
find  it  good  for  health  and  pleasantness  to  let  it  leap 
into  a  fountain.  On  these  several  needs  you  have  a 
school  of  sculpture  founded ;  in  the  decoration  of  the 
walls  of  wells  in  level  countries,  and  of  the  sources  of 
springs  in  mountainous  ones,  and  chiefly  of  all,  where 
the  women  of  household  or  market  meet  at  the  city 
fountain. 

There  is,  however,  a  farther  reason  for  the  use  of  art 
here  than  in  any  other  material  service,  so  far  as  we 
may,  by  art,  express  our  reverence  or  thankfulness. 
Whenever  a  nation  is  in  its  right  mind,  it  always  has 
a  deep  sense  of  divinity  in  the  gift  of  rain  from  heaven. 


ART  AND  USE  265 

filling  its  heart  with  food  and  gladness ;  *  and  all  the 
more  when  that  gift  becomes  gentle  and  perennial  in 
'he  flowing  of  springs.  It  literally  is  not  possible  that 
any  fruitful  power  of  the  Muses  should  be  put  forth 
upon  a  people  which  disdains  their  Helicon;  still  less 
is  it  possible  that  any  Christian  nation  should  grow  up 
"  tanquam  lignum  quod  plantatum  est  secus  decursus 
aquarum,"  ^  which  cannot  recognize  the  lesson  meant 
in  their  being  told  of  the  places  where  Rebekah  was 
met;  —  where  Rachel,  —  where  Zipporah,  —  and  she 
who  was  asked  for  water  under  Mount  Gerizim  by  a 
Stranger,  weary,  who  had  nothing  to  draw  with.^ 

And  truly,  when  our  mountain  springs  are  set  apart 
in  vale  or  craggy  glen,  or  glade  of  wood  green  through 
the  drought  of  summer,  far  from  cities,  then,  it  is  best 
let  them  stay  in  their  own  happy  peace;  but  if  near 
towns,  and  liable  therefore  to  be  defiled  by  common 
usage,  we  could  not  use  the  loveliest  art  more  worthily 
than  by  sheltering  the  spring  and  its  first  pools  with 
precious  marbles :  nor  ought  anything  to  be  esteemed 
more  important,  as  a  means  of  healthy  education,  than 
the  care  to  keep  the  streams  of  it  afterwards,  to  as 
great  a  distance  as  possible,  pure,  full  of  fish,  and  easily 
accessible  to  children.  There  used  to  be,  thirty  years 
ago,  a  Httle  rivulet  of  the  Wandel,  about  an  inch  deep, 
which  ran  over  the  carriage-road  and  under  a  foot- 
bridge just  under  the  last  chalk  hill  near  Croydon. 
Alas !  men  came  and  went ;  and  it  —  did  not  go  on  for 
ever.  It  has  long  since  been  bricked  over  by  the  parish 
authorities;  but  there  was  more  education  in  that 
stream  with  its  minnows  than  you  could  get  out  of  a 

^  Acts  xiv,  17. 

2  Psalms  i,  3. 

3  Genesis  xxiv,  15,  16  and  xxlx,  10;  Exodus  il,  16;  John  iv,  11. 


2GG  LECTURES   ON   ART 

thousand  pounds  spent  yearly  in  the  parish  schools, 
even  though  you  were  to  spend  every  farthing  of  it  in 
teaching  the  nature  of  ox^-gen  and  hydrogen,  and  the 
names,  and  rate  per  minute,  of  all  the  rivers  in  Asia 
and  America. 

Well,  the  gist  of  this  matter  lies  here  then.  Suppose 
we  want  a  school  of  pottery  again  in  England,  all  we 
poor  artists  are  ready  to  do  the  best  we  can,  to  show 
you  how  pretty  a  line  may  be  that  is  twisted  first  to 
one  side,  and  then  to  the  other ;  and  how  a  plain  house- 
hold-blue will  make  a  pattern  on  white ;  and  how  ideal 
art  may  be  got  out  of  the  spaniel's  colours  of  black  and 
tan.  But  I  tell  you  beforehand,  all  that  we  can  do  will 
be  utterly  useless,  unless  you  teach  your  peasant  to  say 
grace,  not  only  before  meat,  but  before  drink;  and 
having  provided  him  with  Greek  cups  and  platters, 
provide  him  also  with  something  that  is  not  poisoned 
to  put  into  them. 

There  cannot  be  any  need  that  I  should  trace  for 
you  the  conditions  of  art  that  are  directly  founded  on 
serviceableness  of  dress,  and  of  armour;  but  it  is  my 
duty  to  affirm  to  you,  in  the  most  positive  manner,  that 
after  recovering,  for  the  poor,  wholesomeness  of  food, 
your  next  step  toward  founding  schools  of  art  in  Eng- 
land must  be  in  recovering,  for  the  poor,  decency  and 
wholesomeness  of  dress;  thoroughly  good  in  substance, 
fitted  for  their  daily  work,  becoming  to  their  rank  in 
life,  and  worn  with  order  and  dignity.  And  this  order 
and  dignity  must  be  taught  them  by  the  women  of  the 
upper  and  middle  classes,  whose  minds  can  be  in  no- 
thing right,  as  long  as  they  are  so  wrong  in  this  matter 
as  to  endure  the  squalor  of  the  poor,  while  they  them- 
selves dress  gaily.  And  on  the  proper  pride  and  com- 
fort of  both  poor  and  rich  in  dress,  must  be  founded 


ART  AND   USE  267 

the  true  arts  of  dress ;  carried  on  by  masters  of  manu- 
facture no  less  careful  of  the  perfectness  and  beauty 
of  their  tissues,  and  of  all  that  in  substance  and  in 
design  can  be  bestowed  upon  them,  than  ever  the 
armourers  of  Milan  and  Damascus  were  careful  of 
their  steel. 

Then,  in  the  third  place,  having  recovered  some 
wholesome  habits  of  life  as  to  food  and  dress,  we  must 
recover  them  as  to  lodging.  I  said  just  now  that  the 
best  architecture  was  but  a  glorified  roof.  Think  of  it. 
The  dome  of  the  Vatican,  the  porches  of  Rheims  or 
Chartres,  the  vaults  and  arches  of  their  aisles,  the 
canopy  of  the  tomb,  and  the  spire  of  the  belfry,  are  all 
forms  resulting  from  the  mere  requirement  that  a  cer- 
tain space  shall  be  strongly  covered  from  heat  and 
rain.  More  than  that  —  as  I  have  tried  all  through 
The  Stones  of  Venice  to  show — the  lovely  forms  of 
these  were  every  one  of  them  developed  in  civil  and 
domestic  building,  and  only  after  their  invention 
employed  ecclesiastically  on  the  grandest  scale.  1 
think  you  cannot  but  have  noticed  here  in  Oxford,  as 
elsewhere,  that  our  modern  architects  never  seem  to 
know  what  to  do  with  their  roofs.  Be  assured,  until  the 
roofs  are  right,  nothing  else  will  be ;  and  there  are  just 
two  ways  of  keeping  them  right.  Never  build  them  of 
iron,  but  only  of  wood  or  stone;  and  secondly,  take 
care  that  in  every  town  the  little  roofs  are  built  before 
the  large  ones,  and  that  everybody  who  wants  one  has 
got  one.  And  we  must  try  also  to  make  everybod}- 
want  one.  That  is  to  say,  at  some  not  very  advanced 
period  of  life,  men  should  desire  to  have  a  home,  which 
they  do  not  wish  to  quit  any  more,  suited  to  their  habits 
of  life,  and  likely  to  be  more  and  more  suitable  to  them 
until  their  death.   And  men  must  desire  to  have  these 


268  LECTURES   ON   ART 

thoir  dwelling-places  built  as  strongly  as  possible,  and 
furnished  and  decorated  daintily,  and  set  in  pleasant 
places,  in  bright  light,  and  good  air,  being  able  to 
choose  for  themselves  that  at  least  as  well  as  swallow^s. 
And  when  the  houses  are  grouped  together  in  cities, 
men  must  have  so  much  civic  fellowship  as  to  subject 
their  architecture  to  a  common  law,  and  so  much  civic 
pride  as  to  desire  that  the  whole  gathered  group  of 
human  dwellings  should  be  a  lovely  thing,  not  a  fright- 
ful one,  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Not  many  wrecks  ago 
an  English  clergyman,*  a  master  of  this  University,  a 
man  not  given  to  sentiment,  but  of  middle  age,  and 
great  practical  sense,  told  me,  by  accident,  and  wholly 
without  reference  to  the  subject  now  before  us,  that  he 
never  could  enter  London  from  his  country  parsonage 
but  with  closed  eyes,  lest  the  sight  of  the  blocks  of 
laouses  which  the  railroad  intersected  in  the  sub- 
urbs should  unfit  him,  by  the  horror  of  it,  for  his  day's 
work. 

Now%  it  is  not  possible  —  and  I  repeat  to  you,  only 
in  more  deliberate  assertion,  what  I  wrote  just  twenty- 
two  years  ago  in  the  last  chapter  of  the  Seven  Lamps 
of  Architecture  —  it  is  not  possible  to  have  any  right 
morality,  happiness,  or  art,  in  any  country  where  the 
cities  are  thus  built,  or  thus,  let  me  rather  say,  clotted 
and  coagulated ;  spots  of  a  dreadful  mildew,  spreading 
by  patches  and  blotches  over  the  country  they  con- 
sume. You  must  have  lovely  cities,  crystallized,  not 
coao^ulated,  into  form;  limited  in  size,  and  not  casting 
out  the  scum  and  scurf  of  them  into  an  encircling 
eruption  of  shame,  but  girded  each  with  its  sacred 
pomcerium,  and  with  garlands  of  gardens  full  of  blos- 
soming trees  and  softly  guided  streams. 

'  Osborne  Gordon.   [Ruskin.] 


ART  AND  HISTORY 

ATHENA  ERGANE 

This  short  selection  is  taken  from  the  volume  entitled 
The  Queen  of  the  Air,  in  which  Ruskin,  fascinated  by  the 
deep  significance  of  the  G-reek  myths  and  realizing  the  reli- 
gious sincerity  underlying  them,  attempts  to  interpret  those 
that  cluster  about  Athena.  The  book  was  published  June 
22,  1869.  It  is  divided  into  three  "  Lectures,"  parts  of 
which  actually  were  delivered  as  lectures  on  different  occa- 
sions, entitled  respectively  "  Athena  Chalinitis  "  (Athena 
in  the  Heavens),  "  Athena  Keramitis  "  (Athena  in  the 
Earth),  "Athena  Ergane"  (Athena  in  the  Heart).  The  first 
lecture  is  the  only  one  which  keeps  to  the  title  of  the  book  ; 
in  the  others  the  legend  is  used  merely  as  a  starting-point 
for  the  expression  of  various  pregnant  ideas  on  social  and 
historical  problems.  The  book  as  a  whole  abounds  in  flashes 
of  inspiration  and  insight,  and  is  a  favourite  with  many 
readers  of  Ruskin.  Carlyle,  in  a  letter  to  Froude,  wrote : 
"  Passages  of  that  last  book,  Queen  of  the  Air^  went  into 
my  heart  like  arrows." 

In  different  places  of  my  writings,  and  through  many 
years  of  endeavour  to  define  the  laws  of  art,  I  have 
insisted  on  this  rightness  in  work,  and  on  its  connection 
with  virtue  of  character,  in  so  many  partial  ways,  that 
the  impression  left  on  the  reader's  mind  —  if,  indeed, 
it  was  ever  impressed  at  all  —  has  been  confused  and 
uncertain.  In  beginning  the  series  of  my  corrected 
works,  I  wish  this  principle  (in  my  own  mind  the  foun- 
dation of  every  other)  to  be  made  plain,  if  nothing 
else  is :  and  will  try,  therefore,  to  make  it  so,  so  far  as, 
by  any  effort,  I  can  put  it  into  unmistakable  words. 
And,  first,  here  is  a  very  simple  statement  of  it,  given 


270  ART   AND    HISTORY 

lately  in  a  lecture  on  the  Architecture  of  the  Valley  o{ 
the  Sonimc/  which  will  be  better  read  in  this  place 
than  in  its  incidental  connection  with  my  account  of 
the  porches  of  Abbeville. 

I  had  used,  in  a  preceding  part  of  the  lecture,  the 
expression,  "by  w^hat  faults"  this  Gothic  architecture 
fell.  We  continually  speak  thus  of  works  of  art.  We 
talk  of  their  faults  and  merits,  as  of  virtues  and  vices. 
What  do  we  mean  by  talking  of  the  faults  of  a  picture, 
or  the  merits  of  a  piece  of  stone  ? 

The  faults  of  a  work  of  art  are  the  faults  of  its  work- 
man, and  its  virtues  his  virtues. 

Great  art  is  the  expression  of  the  mind  of  a  great 
man,  and  mean  art,  that  of  the  want  of  mind  of  a  weak 
man.  A  foolish  person  builds  foolishly,  and  a  wise  one, 
sensibly;  a  virtuous  one,  beautifully;  and  a  vicious 
one,  basely.  If  stone  work  is  well  put  together,  it  means 
that  a  thoughtful  man  planned  it,  and  a  careful  man 
cut  it,  and  an  honest  man  cemented  it.  If  it  has  too 
much  ornament,  it  means  that  its  carver  was  too  greedy 
of  pleasure ;  if  too  little,  that  he  was  rude,  or  insensitive, 
or  stupid,  and  the  like.  So  that  when  once  you  have 
learned  how  to  spell  these  most  precious  of  all  legends, 
—  pictures  and  buildings,  —  you  may  read  the  char- 
acters of  men,  and  of  nations,  in  their  art,  as  in  a 
mirror;  —  nay,  as  in  a  microscope,  and  magnified  a 
hundredfold ;  for  the  character  becomes  passionate 
in  the  art,  and  intensifies  itself  in  all  its  noblest  or 
meanest  delights.  Nay,  not  only  as  in  a  microscope, 
but  as  under  a  scalpel,  and  in  dissection;  for  a  man 
may  hide  himself  from  you,  or  misrepresent  himself 
to  you,  every  other  way;   but  he  cannot  in  his  work: 

*  The  Flamboyant  Architecture  of  the  Valley  of  the  Somme,  a  lec- 
ture delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution,  January  29,  1869. 


ART  AND  HISTORY  271 

there,  be  sure,  you  have  him  to  the  inmost.  All  that  he 
likes,  all  that  he  sees,  —  all  that  he  can  do,  —  his  im^ 
agination,  his  affections,  his  perseverance,  his  impa- 
tience, his  clumsiness,  cleverness,  everything  is  there. 
If  the  work  is  a  cobweb,  you  know  it  was  made  by  a 
spider;  if  a  honeycomb,  by  a  bee;  a  worm-cast  is 
thrown  up  by  a  worm,  and  a  nest  wreathed  by  a  bird ; 
md  a  house  built  by  a  man,  worthily,  if  he  is  worthy, 
ind  ignobly,  if  he  is  ignoble. 

And  always,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest,  as  the 
tiade  thing  is  good  or  bad,  so  is  the  maker  of  it. 

You  all  use  this  faculty  of  judgment  more  or  less, 
whether  you  theoretically  admit  the  principle  or  not. 
Fake  that  floral  gable;  ^  you  don't  suppose  the  man 
jvho  built  Stonehenge  could  have  built  that,  or  that  the 
tnan  who  built  that,  would  have  built  Stonehenge  ?  Do 
you  think  an  old  Roman  would  have  liked  such  a  piece 
of  filigree  work  .^  or  that  Michael  Angelo  would  have 
spent  his  time  in  twisting  these  stems  of  roses  in  and 
out  .5^  Or,  of  modern  handicraftsmen,  do  you  think  a 
burglar,  or  a  brute,  or  a  pickpocket  could  have  carved 
it.^  Could  Bill  Sykes  have  done  it?  or  the  Dodger, 
dexterous  with  finger  and  tool?  You  will  find  in  the 
end,  that  no  man  could  have  done  it  hut  exactly  the  man 
who  did  it;  and  by  looking  close  at  it,  you  may,  if  you 
know  your  letters,  read  precisely  the  manner  of  man 
he  was. 

Now  I  must  insist  on  this  matter,  for  a  grave  reason. 
Of  all  facts  concerning  art,  this  is  the  one  most  neces- 
sary to  be  known,  that,  while  manufacture  is  the 
work  of  hands  only,  art  is  the  work  of  the  whole  spirit 

^  The  elaborate  pediment  above  the  central  porch  at  the  west  end 
of  Rouen  Cathedral,  pierced  into  a  transparent  web  of  tracery,  and 
enriched  with  a  border  of  "twisted  eglantine."   [Ruskin.] 


272  ART  AND   IITSl^ORY 

of  man ;  and  as  that  spirit  is,  so  is  the  deed  of  it :  and 
by  whatever  power  of  vice  or  virtue  any  art  is  produced, 
the  same  vice  or  virtue  it  reproduces  and  teaches.  That 
which  is  born  of  evil  begets  evil ;  and  that  which  is  born 
of  valour  and  honour,  teaches  valour  and  honour.  Al\ 
art  is  either  infection  or  education.  It  must  be  one  or 
other  of  these. 

This,  I  repeat,  of  all  truths  respecting  art,  is  the  one 
of  which  understanding  is  the  most  precious,  and  denial 
the  most  deadly.  And  I  assert  it  the  more,  because  it 
has  of  late  been  repeatedly,  expressly,  and  with  con- 
tumely denied ;  and  that  by  high  authority:  and  I  hold 
it  one  of  the  most  sorrowful  facts  connected  with  the 
decline  of  the  arts  among  us,  that  English  gentlemen, 
of  high  standing  as  scholars  and  artists,  should  have 
been  blinded  into  the  acceptance,  and  betrayed  into 
the  assertion  of  a  fallacy  which  only  authority  such  as 
theirs  could  have  rendered  for  an  instant  credible.  For 
the  contrary  of  it  is  written  in  the  history  of  all  great 
nations ;  it  is  the  one  sentence  always  inscribed  on  the 
steps  of  their  thrones;  the  one  concordant  voice  in 
which  they  speak  to  us  out  of  their  dust. 

All  such  nations  first  manifest  themselves  as  a  pure 
and  beautiful  animal  race,  with  intense  energy  and 
imagination.  They  live  lives  of  hardship  by  choice, 
and  by  grand  instinct  of  manly  discipline  :  they  become 
fierce  and  irresistible  soldiers;  the  nation  is  always 
its  own  army,  and  their  king,  or  chief  head  of  govern- 
ment, is  always  their  first  soldier.  Pharaoh,  or  David, 
or  Leonidas,  or  Valerius,  or  Barbarossa,  or  Coeur  de 
Lion,  or  St. Louis,  or  Dandolo,  or  Frederick  the  Great : 
—  Egyptian,  Jew,  Greek,  Roman,  German,  English, 
French,  Venetian, —  that  is  inviolable  law  for  them  all ; 
their  king  must  be  their  first  soldier,  or  they  cannot  be 


ART  AND   HISTORY  273 

in  progressive  power.  Then,  after  their  great  military 
period,  comes  the  domestic  period;  in  which,  without 
betraying  the  discipHne  of  war,  they  add  to  their  great 
soldiership  the  delights  and  possessions  of  a  delicate 
and  tender  home-Hfe :  and  then,  for  all  nations,  is  the 
time  of  their  perfect  art,  which  is  the  fruit,  the  evidence, 
the  reward  of  their  national  ideal  of  character,  devel- 
oped by  the  finished  care  of  the  occupations  of  peace. 
That  is  the  history  of  all  true  art  that  ever  was,  or 
can  be  :  palpably  the  history  of  it,  —  unmistakably, — 
written  on  the  forehead  of  it  in  letters  of  light,  —  in 
tongues  of  fire,  by  which  the  seal  of  virtue  is  branded 
as  deep  as  ever  iron  burnt  into  a  convict's  flesh  the  seal 
of  crime.  But  always,  hitherto,  after  the  great  period, 
has  followed  the  day  of  luxury,  and  pursuit  of  the  arts 
for  pleasure  only.    And  all  has  so  ended. 

Thus  far  of  Abbeville  building.  Now  I  have  here 
asserted  two  things,  —  first,  the  foundation  of  art  in 
moral  character;  next,  the  foundation  of  moral  charac- 
ter in  war.  I  must  make  both  these  assertions  clearer, 
and  prove  them. 

First,  of  the  foundation  of  art  in  moral  character.  Of 
course  art-gift  and  amiability  of  disposition  are  two 
different  things.  A  good  man  is  not  necessarily  a 
painter,  nor  does  an  eye  for  colour  necessarily  imply  an 
honest  mind.  But  great  art  implies  the  union  of  both 
powers:  it  is  the  expression,  by  an  art-gift,  of  a  pure 
soul.  If  the  gift  is  not  there,  we  can  have  no  art  at  all ; 
and  if  the  soul  —  and  a  right  soul  too  —  is  not  there, 
the  art  is  bad,  however  dexterous. 

But  also,  remember,  that  the  art-gift  itself  is  only 
the  result  of  the  moral  character  of  generations.  A  bad 
woman  may  have  a  sweet  voice ;  but  that  sweetness  of 
voice  comes  of  the  past  morality  of  her  race.  That  she 


je74  ART  AND   HISTORY 

can  sing  with  it  at  all,  she  owes  to  the  determination  of 
laws  of  music  by  the  morality  of  the  past.  Every  act, 
every  impulse,  of  virtue  and  vice,  affects  in  any  crea- 
ture, face,  voice,  nervous  power,  and  vigour  and  har- 
mony of  invention,  at  once.  Perseverance  in  rightness 
of  human  conduct,  renders,  after  a  certain  number  of 
generations,  human  art  possible;  every  sin  clouds  it, 
be  it  ever  so  little  a  one;  and  persistent  vicious  living 
and  following  of  pleasure  render,  after  a  certain  num- 
ber of  generations,  all  art  impossible.  Men  are  deceived 
bythe  long-suffering  of  the  laws  of  nature;  and  mistake, 
in  a  nation,  the  reward  of  the  virtue  of  its  sires  for  the 
issue  of  its  own  sins.  The  time  of  their  visitation  will 
come,  and  that  inevitably ;  for,  it  is  always  true,  that  if 
the  fathers  have  eaten  sour  grapes,  the  children's  teeth 
are  set  on  edge.^  And  for  the  individual,  as  soon  as  you 
have  learned  to  read,  you  may,  as  I  have  said,  know 
him  to  the  heart's  core,  through  his  art.  Let  his  art- 
gift  be  never  so  great,  and  cultivated  to  the  height  by 
the  schools  of  a  great  race  of  men ;  and  it  is  still  but  a 
tapestry  thrown  over  his  own  being  and  inner  soul ;  and 
the  bearing  of  it  will  show,  infallibly,  whether  it  hangs 
on  a  man,  or  on  a  skeleton.  If  you  are  dim-eyed,  you 
may  not  see  the  difference  in  the  fall  of  the  folds  at  first, 
but  learn  how  to  look,  and  the  folds  themselves  will 
become  transparent,  and  you  shall  see  through  them 
the  death's  shape,  or  the  divine  one,  making  the  tissue 
above  it  as  a  cloud  of  light,  or  as  a  winding-sheet. 

Theo  farther,  observe,  I  have  said  (and  you  will 
find  it  true,  and  that  to  the  uttermost)  that,  as  all 
lovely  art  is  rooted  in  virtue,  so  it  bears  fruit  of  virtue, 
and  is  didactic  in  its  own  nature.  It  is  often  didactic 
also  in  actually  expressed  thought,  as  Giotto's,  Michael 
*  Jeremiah  xxxi,  29. 


ART  AND  HISTORY  275 

Angelo's,  Durer's,  and  hundreds  more;  but  that  is  not 
its  special  function,  —  it  is  didactic  chiefly  by  being 
beautiful ;  but  beautiful  with  haunting  thought,  no  less 
than  with  form,  and  full  of  myths  that  can  be  read  only 
with  the  heart. 

For  instance,  at  this  moment  there  is  open  beside  me 
as  I  write,  a  page  of  Persian  manuscript,  wrought  with 
wreathed  azure  and  gold,  and  soft  green,  and  violet, 
and  ruby  and  scarlet,  into  one  field  of  pure  resplend- 
ence. It  is  wrought  to  delight  the  eyes  only;  and  does 
delight  them ;  and  the  man  who  did  it  assuredly  had 
eyes  in  his  head ;  but  not  much  more.  It  is  not  didactic 
art,  but  its  author  was  happy :  and  it  will  do  the  good, 
and  the  harm,  that  mere  pleasure  can  do.  But,  oppo- 
site me,  is  an  early  Turner  drawing  of  the  lake  of 
Geneva,  taken  about  two  miles  from  Geneva,  on  the 
Lausanne  road,  with  Mont  Blanc  in  the  distance.  The 
old  city  is  seen  lying  beyond  the  waveless  waters,  veiled 
with  a  sweet  misty  veil  of  Athena's  weaving:  a  faint 
light  of  morning,  peaceful  exceedingly,  and  almost 
colourless,  shed  from  behind  the  Voirons,  increases 
into  soft  amber  along  the  slope  of  the  Saleve,  and  is  just 
seen,  and  no  more,  on  the  fair  warm  fields  of  its  sum- 
mit, between  the  folds  of  a  white  cloud  that  rests  upon 
the  grass,  but  rises,  high  and  towerlike,  into  the  zenith 
of  dawn  above. 

There  is  not  as  much  colour  in  that  low  amber  light 
upon  the  hill-side  as  there  is  in  the  palest  dead  leaf.  The 
lake  is  not  blue,  but  grey  in  mist,  passing  into  deep 
shadow  beneath  the  Voirons'  pines ;  a  few  dark  clusters 
of  leaves,  a  single  white  flower  —  scarcely  seen  —  are 
all  the  gladness  given  to  the  rocks  of  the  shore.  One 
of  the  ruby  spots  of  the  eastern  manuscript  would  give 
colour  enough  for  all  the  red  that  is  in  Turner's  entire 


576  ART    A>^D    HISTORY 

drawing.  For  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  eye,  there  is  not 
so  much  in  all  those  lines  of  his,  throughout  the  entire 
landscape,  as  in  half  an  inch  square  of  the  Persian's 
page.  What  made  him  take  pleasure  in  the  low  colour 
that  is  only  like  the  brown  of  a  dead  leaf  ?  in  the  cold 
grey  of  dawn  —  in  the  one  white  flower  among  the 
rocks  —  in  these  — •  and  no  more  than  these  ? 

He  took  pleasure  in  them  because  he  had  been 
bred  amono:  Eno:lish  fields  and  hills ;  because  the  oentle- 
ness  of  a  great  race  was  in  his  heart,  and  its  power  of 
thought  in  his  brain ;  because  he  knew  the  stories  of  the 
Alps,  and  of  the  cities  at  their  feet ;  because  he  had  read 
the  Homeric  legends  of  the  clouds,  and  beheld  the  gods 
of  dawn,  and  the  givers  of  dew  to  the  fields ;  because  he 
knew  the  faces  of  the  crags,  and  the  imagery  of  the 
passionate  mountains,  as  a  man  knows  the  face  of  his 
friend ;  because  he  had  in  him  the  wonder  and  sorrow 
concerning  life  and  death,  which  are  the  inheritance  of 
the  Gothic  soul  from  the  days  of  its  first  sea  kings ;  and 
also  the  compassion  and  the  joy  that  are  woven  into 
the  innermost  fabric  of  every  great  imaginative  spirit, 
born  now  in  countries  that  have  liyed  by  the  Christian 
faith  w^ith  any  courage  or  truth.  And  the  picture  con- 
tains also,  for  us,  just  this  which  its  maker  had  in  him 
to  give ;  and  can  convey  it  to  us,  just  so  far  as  we  are  of 
the  temper  in  which  it  must  be  received.  It  is  didactic  if 
we  are  worthy  to  be  taught,  no  otherwise.  The  pure 
heart,  it  will  make  more  pure;  the  thoughtful,  more 
thoughtful.  It  has  in  it  no  words  for  the  reckless  or  the 
base. 


TRAFFIC 

"  Traffic  "  is  the  second  of  the  three  lectures  pub- 
lished May,  1866,  in  the  volume  entitled  The  Crown  of 
Wild  Olive.  All  these  lectures  were  delivered  in  the  years 
1864  and  1865,  but  the  one  here  printed  was  earliest.  The 
occasion  on  which  E/Uskin  addressed  the  people  of  Brad- 
ford is  made  sufficiently  clear  from  the  opening  sentences. 
The  lecture  is  important  as  emphasizing  in  a  popular  way 
some  of  his  most  characteristic  economic  theories. 


TRAFFIC  1 

My  good  Yorkshire  friends,  you  asked  me  down 
here  among  your  hills  that  I  might  talk  to  you  about 
this  Exchange  you  are  going  to  build :  but,  earnestly 
and  seriously  asking  you  to  pardon  me,  I  am  going  to 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  cannot  talk,  or  at  least  can 
say  very  little,  about  this  same  Exchange.  I  must 
talk  of  quite  other  things,  though  not  willingly ;  —  I 
could  not  deserve  your  pardon,  if,  when  you  invited 
me  to  speak  on  one  subject,  I  wilfully  spoke  on  an- 
other. But  I  cannot  speak,  to  purpose,  of  anything 
about  which  I  do  not  care ;  and  most  simply  and  sor- 
rowfully I  have  to  tell  you,  in  the  outset,  that  I  do  not 
care  about  this  Exchange  of  yours. 

If,  however,  when  you  sent  me  your  invitation,  I 
had  answered,  "I  won't  come,  I  don't  care  about  the 
Exchange  of  Bradford,"  you  would  have  been  justly 
offended  with  me,  not  knowing  the  reasons  of  so  blunt 
a  carelessness.    So  I  have  come  down,  hoping  that 

^  Delivered  in  the  Town  Hall,  Bradford,  April  21,  1864. 


278  TRAFFIC 

you  will  patiently  let  me  tell  you  why,  on  this,  and 
many  other  such  occasions,  I  now  remain  silent,  when 
formerly  I  should  have  caught  at  the  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  a  gracious  audience. 

In  a  word,  then,  I  do  not  care  about  this  Exchange  — ■ 
because  ijou  don't ;  and  because  you  know  perfectly  well 
I  cannot  make  you.  Look  at  the  essential  conditions 
of  the  case,  which  you,  as  business  men,  know  perfectly 
well,  though  perhaps  you  think  I  forget  them.  You 
are  going  to  spend  £30,000,  w^hich  to  you,  collectively, 
is  nothing ;  the  buying  a  new  coat  is,  as  to  the  cost  of  it, 
a  much  more  important  matter  of  consideration  to  me, 
than  building  a  new  Exchange  is  to  you.  But  you 
think  you  may  as  well  have  the  right  thing  for  your 
money.  You  know  there  are  a  great  many  odd  styles 
of  architecture  about;  you  don't  want  to  do  anything 
ridiculous ;  you  hear  of  me,  among  others,  as  a  respect- 
able architectural  man-milliner ;  and  you  send  for  me, 
that  I  may  tell  you  the  leading  fashion ;  and  what  is,  in 
our  shops,  for  the  moment,  the  newest  and  sweetest 
thing  in  pinnacles. 

Now,  pardon  me  for  telling  you  frankly,  you  cannot 
have  good  architecture  merely  by  asking  people's  ad- 
vice on  occasion.  All  good  architecture  is  the  expres- 
sion of  national  life  and  character,  and  it  is  produced 
by  a  prevalent  and  eager  national  taste,  or  desire  for 
beauty.  And  I  w^ant  you  to  think  a  little  of  the  deep 
significance  of  this  word  "taste";  for  no  statement  of 
mine  has  been  more  earnestly  or  oftener  controverted 
than  that  good  taste  is  essentially  a  moral  quality. 
*'  No,"  say  many  of  my  antagonists.  "  taste  is  one  thing, 
morality  is  another.  Tell  us  w^hat  is  pretty :  we  shall  be 
glad  to  know  that ;  but  we  need  no  sermons  —  even 
were  you  able  to  preach  them,  which  may  be  doubted.'* 


TRAFFIC  279 

Permit  me,  therefore,  to  fortify  this  old  dogma  of 
mine  somewhat.  Taste  is  not  only  a  part  and  an  index 
of  morality;  —  it  is  the  only  morality.  The  first,  and 
last,  and  closest  trial  question  to  any  living  creature  is, 
"What  do  you  like  ?"  Tell  me  what  you  like,  and  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  are.  Go  out  into  the  street,  and  ask 
the  first  man  or  woman  you  meet,  what  their  "taste" 
is ;  and  if  they  answer  candidly,  you  know  them,  body 
and  soul.  "You,  my  friend  in  the  rags,  with  the  un- 
steady gait,  what  do  you  like  ? "  "A  pipe  and  a  quartern 
of  gin."  I  know  you.  "You,  good  woman,  with  the 
quick  step  and  tidy  bonnet,  what  do  you  like?"  "A 
swept  hearth,  and  a  clean  tea-table ;  and  my  husband 
opposite  me,  and  a  baby  at  my  breast."  Good,  I  know 
you  also.  "  You,  little  girl  with  the  golden  hair  and  the 
soft  eyes,  what  do  you  like  V^  "  My  canary,  and  a  run 
among  the  wood  hyacinths."  "You,  little  boy  with 
the  dirty  hands,  and  the  low  forehead,  what  do  you 
like?"  "A  shy  at  the  sparrows,  and  a  game  at  pitch 
farthing."  Good ;  we  know  them  all  now.  What  more 
need  we  ask  ? 

"  Nay,"  perhaps  you  answer ;  "  we  need  rather  to  ask 
what  these  people  and  children  do,  than  what  they 
like.  If  they  do  right,  it  is  no  matter  that  they  like 
what  is  wrong;  and  if  they  do  wrong,  it  is  no  matter 
that  they  like  what  is  right.  Doing  is  the  great  thing; 
and  it  does  not  matter  that  the  man  likes  drinking,  so 
that  he  does  not  drink ;  nor  that  the  little  girl  likes  to 
be  kind  to  her  canary,  if  she  will  not  learn  her  lessons ; 
nor  that  the  little  boy  likes  throwing  stones  at  the 
sparrows,  if  he  goes  to  the  Sunday  school."  Indeed, 
for  a  short  time,  and  in  a  provisional  sense,  this  is  true. 
For  if,  resolutely,  people  do  what  is  right,  in  time  they 
come  to  like  doing  it.    But  they  only  are  in  a  right 


280  TRAFFIC 

moral  state  when  they  have  come  to  like  doing  it ;  and 
as  long  as  they  don't  like  it,  they  are  still  in  a  vicious 
state.  The  man  is  not  in  health  of  body  who  is  always 
thinking  of  the  bottle  in  the  cupboard,  though  he 
bravely  bears  his  thirst ;  but  the  man  who  heartily  en- 
joys water  in  the  morning,  and  wine  in  the  evening, 
each  in  its  proper  quantity  and  time.  And  the  entire 
object  of  true  education  is  to  make  people  not  merely 
do  the  right  things,  but  enjoy  the  right  things :  —  not 
merely  industrious,  but  to  love  industry  —  not  merely 
learned,  but  to  love  knowledge  —  not  merely  pure,  but 
to  love  purity  —  not  merely  just,  but  to  hunger  and 
thirst  after  justice.^ 

But  you  may  answer  or  think,  "  Is  the  liking  for  out- 
side ornaments,  —  for  pictures,  or  statues,  or  furniture, 
or  architecture,  — a  moral  quality  .^ "  Yes,  most  surely, 
if  a  rightly  set  liking.  Taste  for  any  pictures  or  statues 
is  not  a  moral  quality,  but  taste  for  good  ones  is.  Only 
here  again  we  have  to  define  the  word  "good."  I 
don't  mean  by  "good,"  clever  —  or  learned  —  or 
difficult  in  the  doing.  Take  a  picture  by  Teniers, 
of  sots  quarrelling  over  their  dice;  it  is  an  entirely 
clever  picture;  so  clever  that  nothing  in  its  kind  has 
ever  been  done  equal  to  it;  but  it  is  also  an  entirely 
base  and  evil  picture.  It  is  an  expression  of  delight  in 
the  prolonged  contemplation  of  a  vile  thing,  and  de- 
light in  that  is  an  " unmannered,"  or  "immoral" 
quality.  It  is  "bad  taste"  in  the  profoundest  sense — ■ 
it  is  the  taste  of  the  devils.  On  the  other  hand,  a  pic- 
ture of  Titian's,  or  a  Greek  statue,  or  a  Greek  coin,  or 
a  Turner  landscape,  expresses  delight  in  the  perpetual 
contemplation  of  a  good  and  perfect  thing.  That  is  an 
entirely  moral  quality  —  it  is  the  taste  of  the  angels- 
'  Matthew  v,  6. 


TRAFFIC  281 

And  all  delight  in  art,  and  all  love  of  it,  resolve  them- 
selves into  simple  love  of  that  which  deserves  love. 
That  deserving  is  the  quality  which  we  call  "loveli- 
ness" —  (we  ought  to  have  an  opposite  word,  hateli- 
ness,  to  be  said  of  the  things  which  deserve  to  be  hated) ; 
and  it  is  not  an  indifferent  nor  optional  thing  whether 
we  love  this  or  that ;  but  it  is  just  the  vital  function  of 
all  our  being.  What  we  like  determines  what  we  are, 
and  is  the  sign  of  what  we  are;  and  to  teach  taste  is 
inevitably  to  form  character. 

As  I  was  thinking  over  this,  in  walking  up  Fleet 
Street  the  other  day,  my  eye  caught  the  title  of  a  book 
standing  open  in  a  bookseller's  window.  It  was  — 
*'On  the  necessity  of  the  diffusion  of  taste  among  all 
classes."  "xAh,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "my  classifying 
friend,  when  you  have  diffused  your  taste,  where  will 
your  classes  be?  The  man  who  likes  what  you  like, 
belongs  to  the  same  class  with  you,  I  think.  Inevitably 
so.  You  may  put  him  to  other  work  if  you  choose ;  but, 
by  the  condition  you  have  brought  him  into,  he  will  dis- 
like the  other  work  as  much  as  you  would  yourself. 
You  get  hold  of  a  scavenger  or  a  costermonger,  who 
enjoyed  the  Newgate  Calendar  for  literature,  and  'Pop 
goes  the  Weasel '  for  music.  You  think  you  can  make 
him  like  Dante  and  Beethoven  ?  I  wish  you  joy  of 
your  lessons ;  but  if  you  do,  you  have  made  a  gentle- 
man of  him :  —  he  won't  like  to  go  back  to  his  coster- 
mongering." 

And  so  completely  and  unexceptionally  is  this  so, 
that,  if  I  had  time  to-night,  I  could  show  you  that  a- 
nation  cannot  be  affected  by  any  vice,  or  weakness, 
without  expressing  it,  legibly,  and  for  ever,  either  in 
bad  art,  or  by  want  of  art ;  and  that  there  is  no  national 
virtue,  small  or  great,  which  is  not  manifestly  expressed 


II 


i^82  TRAFFIC 

in  all  the  art  which  circumstances  enable  the  people 
possessing  that  virtue  to  produce.  Take,  for  instance, 
your  great  English  virtue  of  enduring  and  patient 
courage.  You  have  at  present  in  England  only  one  art 
of  any  consequence  —  that  is,  iron-working.  You 
know  thoroughly  well  how  to  cast  and  hammer  iron. 
Now,  do  you  think,  in  those  masses  of  lava  which  you 
build  volcanic  cones  to  melt,  and  which  you  forge  at 
the  mouths  of  the  Infernos  you  have  created ;  do  you 
i;hink,  on  those  iron  plates,  your  courage  and  endurance 
are  not  written  for  ever,  —  not  merely  with  an  iron  pen, 
but  on  iron  parchment?  And  take  also  your  great 
English  vice  —  European  vice  —  vice  of  all  the  world 
--  vice  of  all  other  worlds  that  roll  or  shine  in  heaven, 
bearing  with  them  yet  the  atmosphere  of  hell  —  the 
vice  of  jealousy,  which  brings  competition  into  your 
commerce,  treachery  into  your  councils,  and  dishonour 
into  your  wars — that  vice  which  has  rendered  for  you, 
and  for  your  next  neighbouring  nation,  the  daily  occu- 
pations of  existence  no  longer  possible,  but  with  the 
mail  upon  your  breasts  and  the  sword  loose  in  its  sheath ; 
so  that  at  last,  you  have  realized  for  all  the  multitudes 
of  the  two  great  peoples  who  lead  the  so-called  civiliza- 
tion of  the  earth,  —  you  have  realized  for  them  all,  I 
say,  in  person  and  in  policy,  what  was  once  true  only 
of  the  rough  Border  riders  of  your  Cheviot  hills  — 

They  carved  at  the  meal 
With  gloves,  of  steel. 
And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the  helmet  barr'd;  ^  — 

do  you  think  that  this  national  shame  and  dastardli- 
ness  of  heart  are  not  written  as  legibly  on  every  rivet 
of  your  iron  armour  as  the  strength  of  the  right  hands 
that  forged  it  ? 

^  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  canto  1,  stanza  4. 


TRAFFIC  283 

Friends,  I  know  not  whether  this  thing  be  the  more 
ludicrous  or  the  more  melancholy.  It  is  quite  un- 
speakably both.  Suppose,  instead  of  being  now  sent 
for  by  you,  I  had  been  sent  for  by  some  private 
gentleman,  living  in  a  suburban  house,  with  his  garden 
separated  only  by  a  fruit  wall  from  his  next  door 
neighbour's ;  and  he  had  called  me  to  consult  with  him 
on  the  furnishing  of  his  drawing-room.  I  begin  looking 
about  me.  and  find  the  walls  rather  bare ;  I  think  such 
and  such  a  paper  might  be  desirable  —  perhaps  a  little 
fresco  here  and  there  on  the  ceiling  —  a  damask  curtain 
or  so  at  the  windows.  *'Ah,"  says  my  employer, 
"damask  curtains,  indeed!  That's  all  very  fine,  but 
you  know  I  can't  afford  that  kind  of  thing  just  now!'* 
"Yet  the  world  credits  you  with  a  splendid  income!" 
"Ah,  yes,"  says  my  friend,  "but  do  you  know,  at 
present  I  am  obliged  to  spend  it  nearly  all  in  steel- 
traps  ?  "  "  Steel-traps !  for  whom  ?  "  "  Why,  for  that 
fellow  on  the  other  side  the  wall,  you  know:  we're 
very  good  friends,  capital  friends ;  but  we  are  obliged 
to  keep  our  traps  set  on  both  sides  of  the  wall;  we 
could  not  possibly  keep  on  friendly  terms  without 
them,  and  our  spring  guns.  The  worst  of  it  is,  we  are 
both  clever  fellows  enough;  and  there's  never  a  day 
passes  that  we  don't  find  out  a  new  trap,  or  a  new  gun- 
barrel,  or  something;  we  spend  about  fifteen  millions 
a  year  each  in  our  traps,  take  it  altogether ;  and  I  don't 
see  how  we're  to  do  with  less."  A  highly  comic  state 
of  life  for  two  private  gentlemen !  but  for  two  nations, 
it  seems  to  me,  not  wholly  comic.  Bedlam  would  be 
comic,  perhaps,  if  there  were  only  one  madman  in  it; 
and  your  Christmas  pantomime  is  comic,  when  there 
is  only  one  clown  in  it ;  but  when  the  whole  world  turns 
clown,  and  paints  itself  red  with  its  own  heart's  blood 


284  TRAFFIC 

instead  of  vermilion,  it  is  something  else  than  comic,  I 
think. 

]\Iin(l,  I  know  a  great  deal  of  this  is  play,  and  will- 
ingly allow  for  that.  You  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
yourselves  for  a  sensation  :  fox-hunting  and  cricketing 
will  not  carry  you  through  the  whole  of  this  unendur- 
ably  long  mortal  life :  you  liked  pop-guns  when  you 
were  schoolboys,  and  rifles  and  Armstrongs  are  only 
the  same  things  better  made :  but  then  the  worst  of  it 
is,  that  what  was  play  to  you  when  boys,  was  not  play 
to  the  sparrows;  and  what  is  play  to  you  now,  is  not 
play  to  the  smalL-J^irds  of  State  neither;  and  for  the 
black  eagles,  you  are  somewhat  shy  of  taking  shots  at 
them,  if  I  mistake  not.^ 

I  must  get  back  to  the  matter  in  hand,  however. 
Believe  me,  without  further  instance,  I  could  show  you, 
in  all  time,  that  every  nation's  vice,  or  virtue,  was 
written  in  its  art:  the  soldiership  of  early  Greece;  the 
sensuality  of  late  Italy;  the  visionary  religion  of  Tus- 
cany ;  the  splendid  human  energy  and  beauty  of  Venice. 
I  have  no  time  to  do  this  to-night  (I  have  done  it  else- 
where before  now) ;  ^  but  I  proceed  to  apply  the  prin- 
ciple to  ourselves  in  a  more  searching  manner. 

1  notice  that  among  all  the  new  buildings  that  cover 
\  your  once  wild  hills,  churches  and  schools  are  mixed  in 

•  due,  that  is  to  say,  in  large  proportion,  with  your  mills 

.  and  mansions ;  and  I  notice  also  that  the  churches  and 

^  schools  are  almost  always  Gothic,  and  the  mansions 

and  mills  are  never  Gothic.   Will  you  allow  me  to  ask 

precisely  the  meaning  of  this  ?    For,  remember,  it  is 

peculiarly  a  modern  phenomenon.   When  Gothic  was 

*  The  reference  was  to  the  reluctance  of  this  country  to  take 
arms  in  defence  of  Denmark  against  Prussia  and  Austria.  [Cook 
and  Wedderburn.] 

2  See,  e.  g.,  pp.  167  ff.  and  270  ff. 


TRAFFIC  285 

invented,  houses  were  Gothic  as  well  as  churches;  and 
when  the  Italian  style  superseded  the  Gothic,  churches 
were  Italian  as  well  as  houses.  If  there  is  a  Gothic  spire 
to  the  cathedral  of  Antwerp,  there  is  a  Gothic  belfry  to 
the  Hotel  de  Ville  at  Brussels;  if  Inigo  Jones  builds 
an  Italian  Whitehall,  Sir  Christopher  Wren  builds  an 
Italian  St.  Paul's.^  But  now  you  live  under  one  school 
of  architecture,  and  worship  under  another.  What  do 
you  mean  by  doing  this  ?  Am  I  to  understand  that  you 
are  thinking  of  changing  your  architecture  back  to 
Gothic ;  and  that  you  treat  your  churches  experimen- 
tally, because  it  does  not  matter  what  mistakes  you 
make  in  a  church.^  Or  am  I  to  understand  that  you 
consider  Gothic  a  pre-eminently  sacred  and  beautiful 
mode  of  building,  which  you  think,  like  the  fine  frank- 
incense, should  be  mixed  for  the  tabernacle  only,  and 
reserved  for  your  religious  services  ?  For  if  this  be  the 
feeling,  though  it  may  seem  at  first  as  if  it  were  grace- 
ful and  reverent,  you  will  find  that,  at  the  root  of  the 
matter,  it  signifies  neither  more  nor  less  than  that  you 
have  separated  your  religion  from  your  life. 

For  consider  what  a  wide  significance  this  fact  has ; 
and  remember  that  it  is  not  you  only,  but  all  the  people 
of  England,  who  are  behaving  thus,  just  now. 

You  have  all  got  into  the  habit  of  calling  the  church 
"the  house  of  God."  I  have  seen,  over  the  doors  of 
many  churches,  the  legend  actually  carved,  "  This  is 
the  house  of  God  and  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven."  ^ 
Now,  note  where  that  legend  comes  from,  and  of  what 
place  it  was  first  spoken.  A  boy  leaves  his  father's 
house  to  go  on  a  long  journey  on  foot,  to  visit  his  uncle : 

*  Inigo  Jones  [1573-1652]  and  Sir  Christopher  Wren  [1632-1723] 
were  the  best  known  architects  of  their  respective  generations. 
2  Genesis  xxviii,  17. 


^80  TRAFFIC 

he  has  to  cross  a  wild  hill-dosert;  just  as  if  one  of  your 
own  boys  had  to  cross  the  wolds  to  visit  an  uncle  at 
Carlisle.  The  second  or  third  day  your  boy  finds  him- 
self somewhere  between  Hawes  and  Brough,  in  the 
midst  of  the  moors,  at  sunset.  It  is  stony  ground,  and 
boggy ;  he  cannot  go  one  foot  further  that  night.  Down 
he  lies,  to  sleep,  on  Wiarnside,  where  best  he  may, 
gathering  a  few  of  the  stones  together  to  put  under  his 
head ;  —  so  wild  the  place  is,  he  cannot  get  anything 
but  stones.  And  there,  lying  under  the  broad  night,  he 
has  a  dream ;  and  he  sees  a  ladder  set  up  on  the  earth, 
and  the  top  of  it  reaches  to  heaven,  and  the  angels  of 
God  are  ascending  and  descending  upon  it.  And  when 
he  wakes  out  of  his  sleep,  he  says,  "  How  dreadful  is 
this  place;  surely  this  is  none  other  than  the  house  of 
God,  and  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven."  This  place,  ob- 
serve ;  not  this  church ;  not  this  city ;  not  this  stone,  even, 
which  he  puts  up  for  a  memorial  —  the  piece  of  flint 
on  which  his  head  has  lain.  But  this  place  ;  this  windy 
slope  of  Wharnside;  this  moorland  hollow,  torrent- 
bitten,  snow-blighted !  this  any  place  where  God  lets 
down  the  ladder.  And  how  are  you  to  know  where  that 
wnll  be  ?  or  how  are  you  to  determine  where  it  may  be, 
but  by  being  ready  for  it  always  ?  Do  you  know  where 
the  lightning  is  to  fall  next  ?  You  do  know  that,  partly; 
you  can  guide  the  lightning;  but  you  cannot  guide  the 
going  forth  of  the  Spirit,  which  is  that  lightning  when 
it  shines  from  the  east  to  the  west.* 

But  the  perpetual  and  insolent  warping  of  that  strong 
verse  to  serve  a  merely  ecclesiastical  purpose  is  only 
one  of  the  thousand  instances  in  which  we  sink  back 
into  gross  Judaism.  We  call  our  churches  "  temples. '* 
Now,  you  know  perfectly  w^ell  they  are  not  temples. 
^  Matthew  xxiv,  27. 


TRAFFIC  287 

They  have  never  had,  never  can  have,  anything  what- 
ever to  do  with  temples.  They  are  "  synagogues  "  — 
"gathering  places" — where  you  gather  yourselves  to- 
gether as  an  assembly;  and  by  not  calling  them  so, 
you  again  miss  the  force  of  another  mighty  text  — 
"Thou,  when  thou  prayest,  shalt  not  be  as  the  hypo- 
crites are;  for  they  love  to  pray  standing  in  the 
churches''  [we  should  translate  it],  "that  they  may  be 
seen  of  men.  But  thou,  when  thou  prayest,  enter  into 
thy  closet,  and  when  thou  hast  shut  thy  door,  pray  to 
thy  Father"  —  which  is,  not  in  chancel  nor  in  aisle, 
but  "in  secret."  ^ 

Now,  you  feel,  as  I  say  this  to  you  —  I  know  you 
feel  —  as  if  I  were  trying  to  take  away  the  honour  of 
your  churches.  Not  so ;  I  am  trying  to  prove  to  you  the 
honour  of  your  houses  and  your  hills;  not  that  the 
Church  is  not  sacred  —  but  that  the  whole  Earth  is. 
I  would  have  you  feel,  what  careless,  what  constant, 
what  infectious  sin  there  is  in  all  modes  of  thought, 
whereby,  in  calling  your  churches  only  "  holy,"  you  call 
your  hearths  and  homes  "profane";  and  have  sepa- 
rated yourselves  from  the  heathen  by  casting  all  your 
household  gods  to  the  ground,  instead  of  recognizing, 
in  the  place  of  their  many  and  feeble  Lares,  the  pre- 
sence of  your  One  and  Mighty  Lord  and  Lar. 

"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  our  Exchange  ?  " 
you  ask  me,  impatiently.  My  dear  friends,  it  has  just 
everything  to  do  with  it ;  on  these  inner  and  great  ques- 
tions depend  all  the  outer  and  little  ones ;  and  if  you 
have  asked  me  down  here  to  speak  to  you,  because 
you  had  before  been  interested  in  anything  I  have 
written,  you  must  know  that  all  I  have  yet  said  about 
architecture  was  to  show  this.    The  book  I  called  The 

^  Matthew  vi,  6. 


288  TRAFFIC 

Seven  Lamps  was  to  show  that  certain  right  states  of 
temper  and  moral  feeling  were  the  magic  powers  by 
which  all  good  architecture,  without  exception,  had 
been  produced.  The  Stones  of  Venice  had,  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  no  other  aim  than  to  show  that  the 
Gothic  architecture  of  Venice  had  arisen  out  of,  and 
indicated  in  all  its  features,  a  state  of  pure  national 
faith,  and  of  domestic  virtue;  and  that  its  Renaissance 
architecture  had  arisen  out  of,  and  in  all  its  features 
indicated,  a  state  of  concealed  national  infidelity,  and 
of  domestic  corruption.  And  now,  you  ask  me  what 
style  is  best  to  build  in,  and  how  can  I  answer,  know- 
ing the  meaning  of  the  two  styles,  but  by  another 
C|uestion  —  do  you  mean  to  build  as  Christians  or  as 
Infidels  ?  And  still  more  —  do  you  mean  to  build  as 
honest  Christians  or  as  honest  Infidels  ?  as  thoroughly 
and  confessedly  either  one  or  the  other  ?  You  don't  like 
to  be  asked  such  rude  questions.  I  cannot  help  it ;  they 
are  of  much  more  importance  than  this  Exchange  busi- 
ness ;  and  if  they  can  be  at  once  answered,  the  Exchange 
business  settles  itself  in  a  moment.  But  before  I  press 
them  farther,  I  must  ask  leave  to  explain  one  point 
clearly. 

In  all  my  past  work,  my  endeavour  has  been  to  show 
that  good  architecture  is  essentially  religious  —  the 
production  of  a  faithful  and  virtuous,  not  of  an  infidel 
and  corrupted  people.  But  in  the  course  of  doing  this, 
I  have  had  also  to  show  that  good  architecture  is  not 
ecclesiastiGal.  People  are  so  apt  to  look  upon  religion 
as  the  business  of  the  clergy,  not  their  own,  that  the 
moment  they  hear  of  anything  depending  on"  religion," 
they  think  it  must  also  have  depended  on  the  priest- 
hood ;  and  I  have  had  to  take  what  place  was  to  be  oc- 
cupied between  these  two  errors,  and  fight  both,  often 


TRAFFIC  289 

with  seemino:  contradiction.  Good  architecture  is  the 
work  of  good  and  believing  men ;  therefore,  you  say,  at 
least  some  people  say,  "  Good  architecture  must  essen- 
tially have  been  the  work  of  the  clergy,  not  of  the  laity." 
No  —  a  thousand  times  no ;  good  architecture  ^  has 
always  been  the  work  of  the  commonalty,  not  of  the 
clergy.  "What,"  you  say,  "those  glorious  cathedrals 
—  the  pride  of  Europe  —  did  their  builders  not  form 
Gothic  architecture?"  No;  they  corrupted  Gothic 
architecture.  Gothic  was  formed  in  the  baron's  castle, 
and  the  burgher's  street.  It  was  formed  by  the  thoughts, 
and  hands,  and  powers  of  labouring  citizens  and  war- 
rior kings.  By  the  monk  it  was  used  as  an  instrument 
for  the  aid  of  his  superstition ;  when  that  superstition 
became  a  beautiful  madness,  and  the  best  hearts  of 
Europe  vainly  dreamed  and  pined  in  the  cloister,  and 
vainly  raged  and  perished  in  the  crusade,  —  through 
that  fury  of  perverted  faith  and  wasted  war,  the  Gothic 
rose  also  to  its  loveliest,  most  fantastic,  and,  finally, 
most  foolish  dreams;  and  in  those  dreams,  was  lost. 

I  hope,  now,  that  there  is  no  risk  of  your  misunder- 
standing me  when  I  come  to  the  gist  of  what  I  want  to 
say  to-night;  —  when  I  repeat,  that  every  great  na- 
tional architecture  has  been  the  result  and  exponent  of 
a  great  national  religion.  You  can't  have  bits  of  it  here, 
bits  there  —  you  must  have  it  everywhere  or  nowhere. 
It  is  not  the  monopoly  of  a  clerical  company  —  it  is 
not  the  exponent  of  a  theological  dogma  —  it  is  not  the 
hieroglyphic  writing  of  an  initiated  priesthood;  it  is 
the  manly  language  of  a  people  inspired  by  resolute 
and  common  purpose,  and  rendering  resolute  and  com- 
mon fidelity  to  the  legible  laws  of  an  undoubted  God. 

^  And  all  other  arts,  for  the  most  part;  even  of  incredulous  and 
secularly-minded  commonalties.   [Ruskin.] 


\ 


290  TRAFFIC 

Now,  tlicre  have  as  yet  been  three  distinct  schools 
of  European  architecture.  I  say,  European,  because 
Asiatic  and  African,  architectures  belong  so  entirely  to 
other  races  and  climates,  that  there  is  no  question  of 
them  here;  only,  in  passing,  I  will  simply  assure  you 
that  whatever  is  good  or  great  in  Egypt,  and  Syria, 
and  India,  is  just  good  or  great  for  the  same  reasons 
as  the  buildings  on  our  side  of  the  Bosphorus.  We 
Europeans,  then,  have  had  three  great  religions:  the 
Greek,  which  was  the  worship  of  the  God  of  Wisdom 
and  Power;  the  Mediaeval,  which  was  the  worship  of 
the  God  of  Judgment  and  Consolation;  the  Renais- 
sance, which  was  the  worship  of  the  God  of  Pride  and 
Beauty:  these  three  w^e  have  had  — they  are  past, — 
and  now,  at  last,  we  English  have  got  a  fourth  religion, 
and  a  God  of  our  own,  about  which  I  want  to  ask  you. 
But  I  must  explain  these  three  old  ones  first. 
^  I  repeat,  first,  the  Greeks  essentially  worshipped  the 
God  of  Wisdom;  so  that  whatever  contended  against 
their  religion, — to  the  Jews  a  stumbling-block,  —  was, 
to  the  Greeks  —  Foolishness.^ 

The  first  Greek  idea  of  deity  was  that  expressed  in 
the  word,  of  which  we  keep  the  remnant  in  our  words 
"  Dz-urnal "  and  "  Z)i-vine  "  —  the  god  of  Day,  Jupiter 
the  revealer.  Athena  is  his  daughter,  but  especially 
daughter  of  the  Intellect,  springing  armed  from  the 
head.  We  are  only  with  the  help  of  recent  investigation 
beginning  to  penetrate  the  depth  of  meaning  couched 
under  the  Athenaic  symbols :  but  I  may  note  rapidly, 
that  her  aegis,  the  mantle  with  the  serpent  fringes,  in 
w^hich  she  often,  in  the  best  statues,  is  represented  as 
folding  up  her  left  hand,  for  better  guard  ;  and  the  Gor- 
gon, on  her  shield,  are  both  representative  mainly  of 
*  1  Corinthians  i,  23. 


TRAFFIC  291 

the  chilling  horror  and  sadness  (turning  men  to  stone, 
as  it  were),  of  the  outmost  and  superficial  spheres  of 
knowledge  —  that  knowledge  which  separates,  in  bit- 
terness, hardness,  and  sorrow,  the  heart  of  the  full- 
grown  man  from  the  heart  of  the  child.  For  out  of 
imperfect  knowledge  spring  terror,  dissension,  danger, 
and  disdain;  but  from  perfect  knowledge,  given  by  the 
full-revealed  Athena,  strength  and  peace,  in  sign  of 
which  she  is  crowned  with  the  oHve  spray,  and  bears 
the  resistless  spear.* 

This,  then,  was  the  Greek  conception  of  purest 
Deity;  and  every  habit  of  life,  and  every  form  of  his 
art  developed  themselves  from  the  seeking  this  bright, 
serene,  resistless  wisdom;  and  setting  himself,  as  a 
man,  to  do  things  evermore  rightly  and  strongly;  ^  not 
with  any  ardent  affection  or  ultimate  hope ;  but  with  a 
resolute  and  continent  energy  of  will,  as  knowing  that 
for  failure  there  was  no  consolation,  and  for  sin  there 
was  no  remission.  And  the  Greek  architecture  rose 
unerring,  bright,  clearly  defined,  and  self-contained. 

Next  followed  in  Europe  the  great  Christian  faith, 
which  was  essentially  the  religion  of  Comfort.  Its  great 
doctrine  is  the  remission  of  sins;  for  which  cause,  it 
happens,  too  often,  in  certain  phases  of  Christianity, 
that  sin  and  sickness  themselves  are  partly  glorified, 

^  For  further  interpretation  of  Greek  mythology  see  Ruskin's 
Queen  of  the  Air. 

2  It  is  an  error  to  suppose  that  the  Greek  worship,  or  seeking, 
■was  chiefly  of  Beauty.  It  was  essentially  of  Rightness  and  Strength, 
founded  on  Forethought :  the  principal  character  of  Greek  art  is  not 
beauty,  but  design:  and  the  Dorian  Apollo-worship  and  Athenian 
Virgin-worship  are  both  expressions  of  adoration  of  divine  wisdom 
and  purity.  Next  to  these  great  deities,  rank,  in  power  over  the 
national  mind,  Dionysus  and  Ceres,  the  givers  of  human  strength 
and  life;  then,  for  heroic  example,  Hercules.  There  is  no  Venus- 
worship  among  the  Greeks  in  the  great  times :  and  the  Muses  are 
essentially  teachers  of  Truth,  and  of  its  harmonies.   [Ruskin.] 


292  TRAFFIC 

as  if,  the  more  you  had  to  be  healed  of,  the  more  divine 
was  the  heahng.  The  practical  result  of  this  doctrine, 
in  art,  is  a  continual  contemplation  of  sin  and  disease, 
and  of  imaginary  states  of  purification  from  them ;  thus 
we  have  an  architecture  conceived  in  a  mingled  sen- 
timent of  melancholy  and  aspiration,  partly  severe, 
partly  luxuriant,  which  will  bend  itself  to  every  one  of 
our  needs,  and  every  one  of  our  fancies,  and  be  strong 
or  weak  with  us,  as  we  are  strong  or  weak  ourselves. 
It  is,  of  all  architecture,  the  basest,  when  base  people 
build  it  —  of  all,  the  noblest,  when  built  by  the  noble. 
And  now  note  that  both  these  religions  —  Greek  and 
Mediaeval  —  perished  by  falsehood  in  their  own  main 
purpose.  The  Greek  religion  of  Wisdom  perished  in  a 
false  philosophy  —  "  Oppositions  of  science,  falsely  so 
called."  The  Mediaeval  religion  of  Consolation  per- 
ished in  false  comfort ;  in  remission  of  sins  given  lyingly. 
It  was  the  selling  of  absolution  that  ended  the  Mediaeval 
faith ;  and  I  can  tell  you  more,  it  is  the  selling  of  abso- 
lution which,  to  the  end  of  time,  will  mark  false  Chris- 
tianity. Pure  Christianity  gives  her  remission  of  sins 
only  by  ending  them;  but  false  Christianity  gets  her 
remission  of  sins  by  compounding  for  them.  And  there 
are  many  ways  of  compounding  for  them.  We  English 
have  beautiful  little  quiet  ways  of  buying  absolution, 
whether  in  low  Church  or  high,  far  more  cunning  than 
any  of  Tetzel's  trading.^ 
^r\  Then,  thirdly,  there  followed  the  religion  of  Pleasure, 
/lin  which  all  Europe  gave  itself  to  luxury,  ending  in 
/death.  First,  hols  masques  in  every  saloon,  and  then 
guillotines  in  every  square.  And  all  these  three  wor- 
ships   issue   in    vast   temple   building.     Your    Greek 

^  Tetzel's  tradinj^  in  Papal  indulgences  aroused  Luther  to  th© 
protest  which  ended  in  the  Reformation. 


TRAFFIC  293 

worshipped  Wisdom,  and  built  you  the  Parthenon  — 
the  Virgin's  temple.  The  Mediaeval  worshipped  Con- 
solation, and  built  yooi  Virgin  temples  also  —  but  to 
our  Lady  of  Salvation.  Then  the  Revivalist  worshipped 
beauty,  of  a  sort,  and  built  you  Versailles  and  the  Vati- 
can. Now,  lastly,  will  you  tell  me  what  we  worship, 
and  what  we  build  ? 

You  know  we  are  speaking  always  of  the  real,  active, 
continual,  national  worship;  that  by  which  men  act, 
while  they  live ;  not  that  which  they  talk  of,  when  they 
die.  Now,  we  have,  indeed,  a  nominal  religion,  to 
which  we  pay  tithes  of  property  and  sevenths  of  time ; 
but  we  have  also  a  practical  and  earnest  religion,  to 
which  we  devote  nine-tenths  of  our  property  and  sixth- 
sevenths  of  our  time.  And  we  dispute  a  great  deal-; 
about  the  nominal  religion :  but  we  are  all  unanimous 
about  this  practical  one;  of  which  I  think  you  will 
admit  that  the  ruling  goddess  may  be  best  generally 
described  as  the  "  Goddess  of  Getting-on,"  or  "  Britan- 
nia of  the  Market."  The  Athenians  had  an  "Athena 
Agoraia,"  or  Athena  of  the  Market ;  but  she  was  a  sub- 
ordinate type  of  their  goddess,  while  our  Britannia 
Agoraia  is  the  principal  type  of  ours.  And  all  your  great 
architectural  works  are,  of  course,  built  to  her.  It  is 
long  since  you  built  a  great  cathedral;  and  how  you 
would  laugh  at  me  if  I  proposed  building  a  cathedral 
on  the  top  of  one  of  these  hills  of  yours,  taking  it  for  an 
Acropolis !  But  your  railroad  mounds,  vaster  than  the 
walls  of  Babylon;  your  railroad  stations,  vaster  than 
the  temple  of  Ephesus,  and  innumerable;  your  chim- 
neys, how  much  more  mighty  and  costly  than  cathe- 
dral spires !  your  harbour-piers ;  your  warehouses ;  your 
exchanges  !  -\-  all  these  are  built  to  your  great  Goddess 
of  "Getting-on";  and  she  has  formed,  and  will  con- 


294  TRAFFIC 

tinue  to  form,  your  architecture,  as  long  as  you  worship 
her;  and  it  is  quite  vain  to  ask  me  to  tell  you  how  to 
build  to  her  ;  you  know  far  better  than  I. 

There  might,  indeed,  on  some  theories,  be  a  con- 
ceivably good  architecture  for  Exchanges  —  that  is  to 
say,  if  there  were  any  heroism  in  the  fact  or  deed  of  ex- 
change which  might  be  typically  carved  on  the  outside 
of  your  building.  For,  you  know,  all  beautiful  architec- 
ture must  be  adorned  with  sculpture  or  painting ;  and 
for  sculpture  or  painting,  you  must  have  a  subject.  And 
hitherto  it  has  been  a  received  opinion  among  the 
nations  of  the  world  that  the  only  right  subjects  for 
either,  were  heroisms  of  some  sort.  Even  on  his  pots 
and  his  flagons,  the  Greek  put  a  Hercules  slaying  lions, 
or  an  Apollo  slaying  serpents,  or  Bacchus  slaying  mel- 
ancholy giants,  and  earthborn  despondencies.  On  his 
temples,  the  Greek  put  contests  of  great  warriors  in 
founding  states,  or  of  gods  with  evil  spirits.  On  his 
houses  and  temples  alike,  the  Christian  put  carvings 
of  angels  conquering  devils;  or  of  hero-martyrs  ex- 
changing this  world  for  another :  subject  inappropriate, 
I  think,  to  our  manner  of  exchange  here.  And  the  Mas- 
ter of  Christians  not  only  left  His  followers  without  any 
orders  as  to  the  sculpture  of  affairs  of  exchange  on  the 
outside  of  buildings,  but  gave  some  strong  evidence  of 
His  dislike  of  affairs  of  exchange  within  them.^  And 
yet  there  might  surely  be  a  heroism  in  such  affairs; 
and  all  commerce  become  a  kind  of  selling  of  doves, 
not  impious.  The  wonder  has  always  been  great  to  me, 
that  heroism  has  never  been  supposed  to  be  in  any  wise 
consistent  with  the  practice  of  supplying  people  with 
food,  or  clothes ;  but  rather  with  that  of  quartering  one's 
self  upon  them  for  food,  and  stripping  them  of  their 
^  Matthew  xxi,  12. 


TRAFFIC  295 

clothes.  Spoiling  of  armour  is  an  heroic  deed  in  all  ages  ; 
but  the  selling  of  clothes,  old,  or  new,  has  never  taken 
any  colour  of  magnanimity.  Yet  one  does  not  see  why 
feeding  the  hungry  and  clothing  the  naked  should  ever 
become  base  businesses,  even  when  engaged  in  on  a 
large  scale.  If  one  could  contrive  to  attach  the  notion 
of  conquest  to  them  anyhow !  so  that,  supposing  there 
were  anywhere  an  obstinate  race,  who  refused  to  be 
comforted,  one  might  take  some  pride  in  giving  them 
compulsory  comfort!  and,  as  it  were,  "occupying  a 
country"  with  one's  gifts,  instead  of  one's  armies?  If 
one  could  only  consider  it  as  much  a  victory  to  get  a 
barren  field  sown,  as  to  get  an  eared  field  stripped; 
and  contend  who  should  build  villages,  instead  of  who 
should  "carry"  them!  Are  not  all  forms  of  heroism 
conceivable  in  doing  these  serviceable  deeds  ?  You 
doubt  who  is  strongest  ?  It  might  be  ascertained  by 
push  of  spade,  as  well  as  push  of  sword .  Who  is  wisest  ? 
There  are  witty  things  to  be  thought  of  in  planning 
other  business  than  campaigns.  Who  is  bravest  .'^  There 
are  always  the  elements  to  fight  with,  stronger  than 
men ;  and  nearly  as  merciless. 

The  only  absolutely  and  unapproachably  heroic 
element  in  the  soldier's  work  seems  to  be  —  that  he  is 
paid  little  for  it  —  and  regularly :  while  you  traffickers, 
and  exchangers,  and  others  occupied  in  presumably 
benevolent  business,  like  to  be  paid  much  for  it  —  and 
by  chance.  I  never  can  make  out  how  it  is  that  a 
knight-erraint  does  not  expect  to  be  paid  for  his  trouble, 
but  a  pedlar-errant  always  does ;  —  that  people  are 
willing  to  take  hard  knocks  for  nothing,  but  never  to 
sell  ribands  cheap ;  that  they  are  ready  to  go  on  fervent 
crusades,  to  recover  the  tomb  of  a  buried  God,  but 
never  on  any  travels  to  fulfil  the  orders  of  a  living  one ; 


«96  TRAFFIC 

—  that  they  will  go  anywhere  barefoot  to  preach  their 
faith,  but  must  be  well  bribed  to  practise  it,  and  are 
perfectly  ready  to  give  the  Gospel  gratis,  but  never  the 
loaves  and  fishes. 

If  you  chose  to  take  the  matter  up  on  any  such  sol- 
dierly principle ;  to  do  your  commerce,  and  your  feeding 
of  nations,  for  fixed  salaries ;  and  to  be  as  particular 
about  giving  people  the  best  food,  and  the  best  cloth, 
as  soldiers  are  about  giving  them  the  best  gunpowder, 
I  could  carve  something  for  you  on  your  exchange 
worth  looking  at.  But  I  can  only  at  present  suggest 
decorating  its  frieze  with  pendant  purses ;  and  making 
its  pillars  broad  at  the  base,  for  the  sticking  of  bills. 
And  in  the  innermost  chambers  of  it  there  might  be  a 
statue  of  Britannia  of  the  Market,  who  may  have,  per- 
haps advisably,  a  partridge  for  her  crest,  typical  at 
once  of  her  courage  in  fighting  for  noble  ideas,  and  of 
her  interest  in  game ;  and  round  its  neck,  the  inscription 
in  golden  letters,  "Perdix  fovit  quae  non  peperit."  * 
Then,  for  her  spear,  she  might  have  a  weaver's  beam; 
and  on  her  shield,  instead  of  St.  George's  Cross,  the 
Milanese  boar,  semi-fleeced,  with  the  tow^n  of  Gennes- 
aret  proper,  in  the  field ;  and  the  legend,  "  In  the  best 
market,"  ^  and  her  corslet,  of  leather,  folded  over  her 
heart  in  the  shape  of  a  purse,  with  thirty  slits  in  it,  for 
a  piece  of  money  to  go  in  at,  on  each  day  of  the  month. 
And  I  doubt  not  but  that  people  would  come  to  see 
your  exchange,  and  its  goddess,  w^ith  applause. 

Nevertheless,  I  want  to  point  out  to  you  certain 
strange  characters  in  this  goddess  of  yours.  She  differs 

^  Jeremiah  xvii,  11  (best  in  Septuagint  and  Vulgate).  "As  the 
partridge,  fostering  what  she  brought  not  forth,  so  he  that  getteth 
riches  not  by  right  shall  leave  them  in  the  midst  of  his  days,  and 
at  his  end  shall  be  a  fool."     [Ruskin.] 

2  Meaning,  fully,  "We  have  brought  our  pigs  to  it."   [Ruskin.] 


TRAFFIC  29T 

from  the  great  Greek  and  Mediaeval  deities  essentially 
in  two  things  —  first,  as  to  the  continuance  of  her 
presumed  power;  secondly,  as  to  the  extent  of  it. 

1st,  as  to  the  Continuance. 

The  Greek  Goddess  of  Wisdom  gave  continual 
increase  of  wisdom,  as  the  Christian  Spirit  of  Comfort 
(or  Comforter)  continual  increase  of  comfort.  There" 
was  no  question,  with  these,  of  any  limit  or  cessation 
of  function.  But  with  your  Agora  Goddess,  that  is  just 
the  most  important  question.  Getting  on  —  but  where 
to  ?  Gathering  together  —  but  how  much  ?  Do  you 
mean  to  gather  always  —  never  to  spend  .^  If  so,  I  wish 
you  joy  of  your  goddess,  for  I  am  just  as  well  off  as 
you,  without  the  trouble  of  worshipping  her  at  all. 
But  if  you  do  not  spend,  somebody  else  will  —  some- 
body else  must.  And  it  is  because  of  this  (among  many 
other  such  errors)  that  I  have  fearlessly  declared  your 
so-called  science  of  Political  Economy  to  be  no  science; 
because,  namely,  it  has  omitted  the  study  of  exactly 
the  most  important  branch  of  the  business  —  the  study 
of  spending.  For  spend  you  must,  and  as  much  as  you 
make,  ultimately.  You  gather  corn  :  —  will  you  bury 
England  under  a  heap  of  grain ;  or  will  you,  when  you 
have  gathered,  finally  eat  ?  You  gather  gold  :  —  will 
you  make  your  house-roofs  of  it,  or  pave  your  streets 
with  it.^  That  is  still  one  way  of  spending  it.  But  if 
you  keep  it,  that  you  may  get  more,  I  '11  give  you  more ; 
I  '11  give  you  all  the  gold  you  want  —  all  you  can 
imagine  —  if  you  can  tell  me  what  you'll  do  with  it. 
You  shall  have  thousands  of  gold-pieces ;  —  thousands 
of  thousands  —  millions  —  mountains,  of  gold  :  where 
will  you  keep  them  ?  Will  you  put  an  Olympus  of 
silver  upon  a  golden  Pelion  —  make  Ossa  like  a  wart  ?  ^ 
'  Cf.  Hamlet,  5.  1.  306. 


298  TRAFFIC 

Do  you  think  the  rain  and  dew  would  then  come  down 
to  you,  in  the  streams  from  such  mountains,  more 
blessedly  than  they  will  down  the  mountains  which 
God  has  made  for  you,  of  moss  and  whinstone  ?  But 
it  is  not  gold  that  you  want  to  gather !  What  is  it  ? 
greenbacks?  No;  not  those  neither.  What  is  it  then 
—  is  it  ciphers  after  a  capital  I  ?  Cannot  you  practise 
writing  ciphers,  and  write  as  many  as  you  want  ?  Write 
ciphers  for  an  hour  every  morning,  in  a  big  book,  and 
say  every  evening,  I  am  worth  all  those  noughts  more 
than  I  was  yesterday.  Won't  that  do  ?  Well,  what  in 
the  name  of  Plutus  is  it  you  want  ?  Not  gold,  not  green- 
backs, not  ciphers  after  a  capital  I  ?  You  will  have  to 
answer,  after  all,  "No;  we  want,  somehow  or  other, 
money's  worths  W^ell,  what  is  that  ?  Let  your  God- 
dess of  Getting-on  discover  it,  and  let  her  learn  to  stay 
therein. 

2d.  But  there  is  yet  another  question  to  be  asked 
respecting  this  Goddess  of  Getting-on.  The  first  was  of 
the  continuance  of  her  power ;  the  second  is  of  its  extent. 

Pallas  and  the  Madonna  were  supposed  to  be  all  the 
world's  Pallas,  and  all  the  world's  Madonna.  They 
could  teach  all  men,  and  they  could  comfort  all  men. 
But,  look  strictly  into  the  nature  of  the  power  of  your 
Goddess  of  Getting-on;  and  you  will  find  she  is  the 
Goddess  —  not  of  everybody's  getting  on  —  but  only 
of  somebody's  getting  on.  This  is  a  vital,  or  rather 
deathful,  distinction.  Examine  it  in  your  own  ideal  of 
the  state  of  national  life  which  this  Goddess  is  to  evoke 
and  maintain.  I  asked  you  what  it  was,  when  I  was 
last  here ;  —  you  have  never  told  me.^  Now,  shall  I  try 
to  tell  you  ? 

^  Referring  to  a  lecture  on  Modern  Manvfacfure  and  Design,  de- 
livered at  Bradford,  March  1,  1859^  published  later  as  Lecture  III 
in  The  Two  Paths. 


TRAFFIC  209 

Your  ideal  of  human  life  then  is,  I  think,  that  it 
should  be  passed  in  a  pleasant  undulating  world, 
with  iron  and  coal  everywhere  underneath  it.  On  each 
pleasant  bank  of  this  world  is  to  be  a  beautiful  man- 
sion, with  two  wings;  and  stables,  and  coach-houses; 
a  moderately-sized  park;  a  large  garden  and  hot-houses; 
and  pleasant  carriage  drives  through  the  shrubberies 
In  this  mansion  are  to  live  the  favoured  votaries  of  the 
Goddess;  the  English  gentleman,  with  his  gracious 
wife,  and  his  beautiful  family;  always  able  to  have  the 
boudoir  and  the  jewels  for  the  wife,  and  the  beautiful 
ball  dresses  for  the  daughters,  and  hunters  for  the  sons, 
and  a  shooting  in  the  Highlands  for  himself.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  bank,  is  to  be  the  mill ;  not  less  than  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  long,  with  a  steam  engine  at  each  end, 
and  two  in  the  middle,  and  a  chimney  three  hundred 
feet  high.  In  this  mill  are  to  be  in  constant  employment 
from  eight  hundred  to  a  thousand  workers,  who  never 
drink,  never  strike,  always  go  to  church  on  Sunday, 
and  always  express  themselves  in  respectful  language. 

Is  not  that,  broadly,  and  in  the  main  features,  the 
kind  of  thing  you  propose  to  yourselves.^  It  is  very 
pretty  indeed  seen  from  above;  not  at  all  so  pretty, 
seen  from  below.  For,  observe,  while  to  one  family 
this  deity  is  indeed  the  Goddess  of  Getting-on,  to  a 
thousand  families  she  is  the  Goddess  of  not  Getting- 
on.  "Nay,"  you  say,  "they  have  all  their  chance." 
Yes,  so  has  every  one  in  a  lottery,  but  there  must 
always  be  the  same  number  of  blanks.  "  Ah !  but  in 
a  lottery  it  is  not  skill  and  intelligence  which  take  the 
lead,  but  blind  chance."  What  then  !  do  you  think  the 
old  practice,  that  "they  should  take  who  have  the 
power,  and  they  should  keep  who  can,"  ^  is  less  iniqui- 
*  See  Wordsworth's  Roh  Roy's  Grave,  39-40. 


300  TRAFFIC 

tous,  when  the  power  has  become  power  of  brains  in- 
stead of  fist?  and  that,  though  we  may  not  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  child's  or  a  w^oman's  weakness,  we  may 
of  a  man's  foolishness  ?  "  Nay,  but  finally,  work  must 
be  done,  and  some  one  must  be  at  the  top,  some  one  at 
the  bottom."  Granted,  my  friends.  Work  must  always 
be,  and  captains  of  work  must  always  be;  and  if  you 
in  the  least  remember  the  tone  of  any  of  my  writings, 
you  must  know  that  they  are  thought  unfit  for  this  age, 
because  they  are  always  insisting  on  need  of  government, 
and  speaking  with  scorn  of  liberty.  But  I  beg  you  to 
observe  that  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  being 
captains  or  governors  of  work,  and  taking  the  profits 
of  it.  It  does  not  follow,  because  you  are  general  of  an 
army,  that  you  are  to  take  all  the  treasure,  or  land,  it 
wins ;  (if  it  fight  for  treasure  or  land  ;)  neither,  because 
you  are  king  of  a  nation,  that  you  are  to  consume  all 
the  profits  of  the  nation's  w^ork.  Real  kings,  on  the 
contrary,  are  known  invariably  by  their  doing  quite  the 
reverse  of  this,  —  by  their  taking  the  least  possible 
quantity  of  the  nation's  work  for  themselves.  There 
is  no  test  of  real  kinghood  so  infallible  as  that.  Does 
the  crowned  creature  live  simply,  bravely,  unostenta- 
tiously? probably  he  25  a  King.  Does  he  cover  his  body 
with  jewels,  and  his  table  w^ith  delicates?  in  all  prob- 
ability he  is  not  a  King.  It  is  possible  he  may  be,  as 
Solomon  was;  but  that  is  when  the  nation  shares  his 
splendour  with  him.  Solomon  made  gold,  not  only  to 
be  in  his  own  palace  as  stones,  but  to  be  in  Jerusalem 
as  stones.^  But,  even  so,  for  the  most  part,  these  splen- 
did kinghoods  expire  in  ruin,  and  only  the  true  king- 
hoods  live,  which  are  of  royal  labourers  governing 
loyal  labourers;  who,  both  leading  rough  lives,  estab- 

»  1  Kings  x,  27. 


TRAFFIC  301 

Hsh  the  true  dynasties.  Conclusively  you  will  find 
that  because  you  are  king  of  a  nation,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  you  are  to  gather  for  yourself  all  the  wealth 
of  that  nation ;  neither,  because  you  are  king  of  a  small 
part  of  the  nation,  and  lord  over  the  means  of  its  main- 
tenance —  over  field,  or  mill,  or  mine,  —  are  you  to 
take  all  the  produce  of  that  piece  of  the  foundation  of 
national  existence  for  yourself. 

You  will  tell  me  I  need  not  preach  against  these 
things,  for  I  cannot  mend  them.  No,  good  friends,  I 
cannot ;  but  you  can,  and  you  will ;  or  something  else 
can  and  will.  Even  good  things  have  no  abiding  power 
—  and  shall  these  evil  things  persist  in  victorious  evil? 
All  history  shows,  on  the  contrary,  that  to  be  the  exact 
thing  they  never  can  do.  Change  must  come;  but  it 
is  ours  to  determine  whether  change  of  growth,  or 
change  of  death.  Shall  the  Parthenon  be  in  ruins  on 
its  rock,  and  Bolton  priory^  in  its  meadow,  but  these 
mills  of  yours  be  the  consummation  of  the  buildings  of 
the  earth,  and  their  wheels  be  as  the  wheels  of  eter- 
nity.^ Think  you  that  "men  may  come,  and  men  may 
go,"  but  —  mills  —  go  on  for  ever.^  ^  Not  so;  out  of 
these,  better  or  worse  shall  come;  and  it  is  for  you  to 
choose  w^hich. 

I  know  that  none  of  this  wrong  is  done  with  delib- 
erate purpose.  I  know,  on  the  contrary,  that  you  wish 
your  workmen  well;  that  you  do  much  for  them,  and 
that  you  desire  to  do  more  for  them,  if  you  saw  your 
way  to  such  benevolence  safely.  I  know  that  even  all 
this  wrong  and  misery  are  brought  about  by  a  warped 
sense  of  duty,  each  of  you  striving  to  do  his  best ;  but, 
unhappily,  not  knowing  for  whom  this  best  should  be 

^  A  beautiful  ruin  in  Yorkshire. 
^  Cf.  Tennyson's  The  Brook. 


S02  TRAFFIC 

done.  And  all  our  hearts  have  been  betrayed  by  the 
plausible  impiety  of  the  modern  economist,  telling  us 
that,  "To  do  the  best  for  ourselves,  is  finally  to  do  the 
best  for  others."  Friends,  our  great  Master  said  not 
so;  and  most  absolutely  we  shall  find  this  world  is  not 
made  so.  Indeed,  to  do  the  best  for  others,  is  finally 
to  do  the  best  for  ourselves;  but  it  will  not  do  to  have 
our  eyes  fixed  on  that  issue.  The  Pagans  had  got  be- 
yond that.  Hear  what  a  Pagan  says  of  this  matter; 
hear  what  were,  perhaps,  the  last  written  words  of 
Plato,  —  if  not  the  last  actually  written  (for  this  we 
cannot  know),  yet  assuredly  in  fact  and  power  his 
parting  words  —  in  w^hich,  endeavouring  to  give  full 
crowning  and  harmonious  close  to  all  his  thoughts,  and 
to  speak  the  sum  of  them  by  the  imagined  sentence  of 
the  Great  Spirit,  his  strength  and  his  heart  fail  him, 
and  the  words  cease,  broken  off  for  ever.  They  are  at 
the  close  of  the  dialogue  called  Critias,  in  which  he 
describes,  partly  from  real  tradition,  partly  in  ideal 
dream,  the  early  state  of  Athens ;  and  the  genesis,  and 
order,  and  religion,  of  the  fabled  isle  of  Atlantis;  in 
which  genesis  he  conceives  the  same  first  perfection 
and  final  degeneracy  of  man,  which  in  our  own  Scrip- 
tural tradition  is  expressed  by  saying  that  the  Sons  of 
God  inter-married  with  the  daughters  of  men,^  for  he 
supposes  the  earliest  race  to  have  been  indeed  the  chil- 
dren of  God ;  and  to  have  corrupted  themselves,  until 
"their  spot  was  not  the  spot  of  his  children."  ^  And  this, 
he  says,  was  the  end ;  that  indeed  "  through  many  gen- 
erations, so  long  as  the  God's  nature  in  them  yet  was 
full,  they  were  submissive  to  the  sacred  laws,  and  car- 
ried themselves  lovingly  to  all  that  had  kindred  with 
them  in  divineness ;  for  their  uttermost  spirit  was  faith- 
*  Genesis  vi,  2.  ^  Deuteronomy  xxxii,  5. 


TRAFFIC  303 

ful  and  true,  and  in  every  wise  great;  so  that,  in  all 
meekness  of  ivisdom,  they  dealt  with  each  other,  and 
took  all  the  chances  of  life;  and  despising  all  things 
except  virtue,  they  cared  little  what  happened  day  by 
day,  and  bore  lightly  the  burden  of  gold  and  of  posses- 
sions; for  they  saw  that,  if  only  their  common  love  and 
virtue  increased,  all  these  things  woidd  be  increased 
together  with  them;  but  to  set  their  esteem  and  ardent 
pursuit  upon  material  possession  would  be  to  lose  that 
first,  and  their  virtue  and  affection  together  with  it. 
And  by  such  reasoning,  and  what  of  the  divine  nature 
remained  in  them,  they  gained  all  this  greatness  of 
which  we  have  already  told ;  but  when  the  God's  part 
of  them  faded  and  became  extinct,  being  mixed  again 
and  again,  and  effaced  by  the  prevalent  mortality; 
and  the  human  nature  at  last  exceeded,  they  then  be- 
came unable  to  endure  the  courses  of  fortune;  and  fell 
into  shapelessness  of  life,  and  baseness  in  the  sight  of 
him  who  could  see,  having  lost  everything  that  was 
fairest  of  their  honour;  while  to  the  blind  hearts  which 
could  not  discern  the  true  life,  tending  to  happiness,  it 
seemed  that  they  were  then  chiefly  noble  and  happy, 
being  filled  with  an  iniquity  of  inordinate  possession 
and  power.  Whereupon,  the  God  of  Gods,  whose  King- 
hood  is  in  laws,  beholding  a  once  just  nation  thus  cast 
into  misery,  and  desiring  to  lay  such  punishment  upon 
them  as  might  make  them  repent  into  restraining, 
gathered  together  all  the  gods  into  his  dwelling-place, 
which  from  heaven's  centre  overlooks  whatever  has  part 
in  creation;  and  having  assembled  them,  he  said  "  — 
The  rest  is  silence.  Last  words  of  the  chief  wisdom 
of  the  heathen,  spoken  of  this  idol  of  riches;  this  idol 
of  yours;  this  golden  image,  high  by  measureless 
cubits,  set  up  where  your  green  fields  of  England  are 


304  TRAFFIC 

furnace-burnt  into  the  likeness  of  the  plain  of  Dura:  ^ 
this  idol,  forbidden  to  us,  first  of  all  idols,  by  our  own 
Master  and  faith ;  forbidden  to  us  also  by  every  human 
lip  that  has  ever,  in  any  age  or  people,  been  accounted 
of  as  able  to  speak  according  to  the  purposes  of  God. 
Continue  to  make  that  forbidden  deity  your  principal 
one,  and  soon  no  more  art,  no  more  science,  no  more 
pleasure  will  be  possible.  Catastrophe  will  come;  or, 
worse  than  catastrophe,  slow  mouldering  and  wither- 
ing into  Hades.  But  if  you  can  fix  some  conception  of 
a  true  human  state  of  life  to  be  striven  for  —  life,  good 
for  all  men,  as  for  yourselves ;  if  you  can  determine 
some  honest  and  simple  order  of  existence;  following 
those  trodden  ways  of  wisdom,  which  are  pleasantness,^ 
and  seeking  her  quiet  and  withdrawn  paths,  which  are 
peace;  —  then,  and  so  sanctifying  wealth  into  "com- 
monwealth," all  your  art,  your  literature,  your  daily 
labours,  your  domestic  affection,  and  citizen's  duty,  will 
join  and  increase  into  one  magnificent  harmony.  You 
will  know  then  how  to  build,  well  enough;  you  will 
build  with  stone  well,  but  with  flesh  better;  temples  not 
made  with  hands, ^  but  riveted  of  hearts;  and  that  kind 
^i  marble,  crimson-veined,  is  indeed  eternal. 

^  Daniel  iii,  1. 

2  Proverbs  iii,  17. 

3  Acts  vii,  48. 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS 

This  lecture,  the  full  title  of  which  is  ''  The  Mystery  of 
Life  and  its  Arts,"  was  delivered  in  Dublin  on  May  13, 
1868.  It  composed  one  of  a  series  of  afternoon  lectures  on 
various  subjects,  religion  excepted,  arranged  by  some  of  the 
foremost  residents  in  Dublin.  The  latter  half  of  the  lecture 
is  included  in  the  present  volume  of  selections.  The  tirst 
publication  of  the  lecture  was  as  an  additional  part  to  a  re- 
vised edition  of  Sesavie  and  Lilies  in  1871.  Ruskin  took 
exceptional  care  in  writing  ''  The  Mystery  of  Life  "  :  he 
once  said  in  conversation,  "I  put  into  it  all  that  I  know," 
and  in  the  preface  to  it  when  published  he  tells  us  that 
certain  passages  of  it  "  contain  the  best  expression  I  have 
yet  been  able  to  put  in  words  of  what,  so  far  as  is  within 
my  power,  I  mean  henceforward  both  to  do  myself,  and  to 
plead  with  all  over  whom  I  have  any  influence  to  do  ac- 
cording to  their  means."  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  says  this  "is, 
to  my  mind,  the  most  perfect  of  his  essays."  In  later  edi- 
tions of  Sesame  and  Lilies  this  lecture  was  withdrawn. 
At  the  time  the  lecture  was  delivered  its  tone  was  charac- 
teristic of  Ruskin's  own  thought  and  of  the  attitude  he  then 
took  toward  the  public. 

We  have  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  poets  who  sang  of 
heaven,  and  they  have  told  us  their  dreams.  We  have 
listened  to  the  poets  who  sang  of  earth,  and  they  have 
chanted  to  us  dirges  and  words  of  despair.  But  there 
is  one  class  of  men  more  :  —  men,  not  capable  of  vision, 
nor  sensitive  to  sorrow,  but  firm  of  purpose  —  practised 
in  business;  learned  in  all  that  can  be,  (by  handling,) 
known.  Men,  whose  hearts  and  hopes  are  wholly  in 
this  present  world,  from  whom,  therefore,  we  may 
surely  learn,  at  least,  how,  at  present,  conveniently  to 
live  in  it.    What  will  they  say  to  us,  or  show  us  by 


^6  LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS 

example  ?  These  kings  —  these  councillors  —  these 
statesmen  and  builders  of  kingdoms  —  these  capital- 
ists and  men  of  business,  who  weigh  the  earth,  and  the 
dust  of  it,  in  a  balance.^  They  know  the  world,  surely; 
and  what  is  the  mystery  of  life  to  us,  is  none  to  them. 
They  can  surely  show  us  how  to  live,  while  we  live,  and 
to  gather  out  of  the  present  world  what  is  best. 
^^  I  think  I  can  best  tell  you  their  answer,  by  telling 
^  you  a  dream  I  had  once.  For/though  I  am  no  poet,  I 
^  have  dreams  sometimes  :  —  I  dreamed  I  was  at  a  child's 
May-day  party,  in  which  every  means  of  entertainment 
had  been  provided  for  them,  by  a  wise  and  kind  host. 
It  was  in  a  stately  house,  with  beautiful  gardens  at- 
tached to  it;  and  the  children  had  been  set  free  in  the 
rooms  and  gardens,  with  no  care  whatever  but  how  to 
pass  their  afternoon  rejoicingly.  They  did  not,  indeed, 
know  much  about  what  was  to  happen  next  day;  and 
some  of  them,  I  thought,  were  a  little  frightened,  be- 
cause there  was  a  chance  of  their  being  sent  to  a  new 
school  where  there  were  examinations;  but  they  kept 
the  thoughts  of  that  out  of  their  heads  as  well  as  they 
could,  and  resolved  to  enjoy  themselves.  The  house, 
I  said,  was  in  a  beautiful  garden,  and  in  the  garden 
were  all  kinds  of  flowers ;  sweet,  grassy  banks  for  rest ; 
and  smooth  lawns  for  play ;  and  pleasant  streams  and 
woods;  and  rocky  places  for  climbing.  And  the  chil- 
dren were  happy  for  a  little  while,  but  presently  they 
separated  themselves  into  parties ;  and  then  each  party 
declared  it  would  have  a  piece  of  the  garden  for  its 
own,  and  that  none  of  the  others  should  have  anything 
to  do  with  that  piece.  Next,  they  quarrelled  violently 
which  pieces  they  would  have;  and  at  last  the  boys 
took  up  the  thing,  as  boys  should  do,  "practically," 
^  Isaiah  : 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  307 

and  fought  in  the  flower-beds  till  there  was  hardly  a 
flower  left  standing;  then  they  trampled  down  each 
other's  bits  of  the  garden  out  of  spite ;  and  the  girls  cried 
till  they  could  cry  no  more ;  and  so  they  all  lay  down  at  ^ 
last  breathless  in  the  ruin,  and  waited  for  the  time  J 
when  they  were  to  be  taken  home  in  the  evening.^         A 

Meanwhile,  the  children  in  the  house  haabeen 
making  themselves  happy  also  in  their  manner.  For 
them,  there  had  been  provided  every  kind  of  in-door 
pleasure  :  there  was  music  for  them  to  dance  to ;  and  the 
library  was  open,  with  all  manner  of  amusing  books; 
and  there  was  a  museum  full  of  the  most  curious  shells, 
and  animals,  and  birds;  and  there  was  a  workshop, 
with  lathes  and  carpenters'  tools,  for  the  ingenious 
boys;  and  there  were  pretty  fantastic  dresses,  for  the 
girls  to  dress  in ;  and  there  were  microscopes,  and 
kaleidoscopes;  and  whatever  toys  a  child  could  fancy; 
and  a  table,  in  the  dining-room,  loaded  with  everything 
nice  to  eat. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  it  struck  two  or  three  of 
the  more  "practical"  children,  that  they  would  like 
some  of  the  brass-headed  nails  that  studded  the  chairs ; 
and  so  they  set  to  work  to  pull  them  out.  Presently, 
the  others,  who  were  reading,  or  looking  at  shells,  took 
a  fancy  to  do  the  like ;  and,  in  a  little  while,  all  the  chil- 
dren, nearly,  were  spraining  their  fingers,  in  pulling 
out  brass-headed  nails.  With  all  that  they  could  pull 
out,  they  were  not  satisfied;  and  then,  everybody 
wanted  some  of  somebody  else's.  And  at  last,  the  really 
practical  and  sensible  ones  declared,  that  nothing  was 
of  any  real  consequence,  that  afternoon,  except  to  get 

^  I  have  sometimes  been  asked  what  this  means.  I  intended  it 
to  set  forth  the  wisdom  of  men  in  war  contendinj^  for  kinj^doms, 
and  what  follows  to  set  forth  their  wisdom  in  peace,  contending 
for  wealth.   [Ruskin.] 


808  LIFE  AND   ITS   ARTS 

plenty  of  brass-headed  nails;  and  that  the  books,  and 
the  cakes,  and  the  microscopes  were  of  no  use  at  all  in 
themselves,  but  only,  if  they  could  be  exchanged  for 
nail-heads.  And  at  last  thev  be<^an  to  fi^Ait  for  nail- 
heads,  as  the  others  fought  for  the  bits  of  garden.  Only 
here  and  there,  a  despised  one  shrank  away  into  a 
corner,  and  tried  to  get  a  little  quiet  with  a  book,  in 
the  midst  of  the  noise.;  but  all  the  practical  ones  thought 
of  nothing  else  but  counting  nail-heads  all  the  after- 
noon —  even  though  they  knew  they  would  not  be 
allowed  to  carry  so  much  as  one  brass  knob  away  with 
them.  But  no  —  it  was  —  "who  has  most  nails?  I 
have  a  hundred,  and  you  have  fifty;  or,  I  have  a  thou- 
sand, and  you  have  two.  I  must  have  as  many  as  you 
before  I  leave  the  house,  or  I  cannot  possibly  go  home 
in  peace."  At  last,  they  made  so  much  noise  that  I 
awoke,  and  thought  to  myself,  "What  a  false  dream 
that  is,  of  children  !  "  The  child  is  the  father  of  the 
man ;  ^  and  wiser.  Children  never  do  such  foolish 
things.    Only  men  do. 

But  there  is  yet  one  last  class  of  persons  to  be  in- 
terrogated. The  wise  religious  men  we  have  asked  in 
vain;  the  wise  contemplative  men,  in  vain;  the  wise 
worldly  men,  in  vain.  But  there  is  another  group  yet. 
In  the  midst  of  this  vanity  of  empty  religion  —  of 
tragic  contemplation  —  of  wrathful  and  wretched  am- 
bition, and  dispute  for  dust,  there  is  yet  one  great 
group  of  persons,  by  whom  all  these  disputers  live 
—  the  persons  who  have  determined,  or  have  had 
it  by  a  beneficent  Providence  determined  for  them, 
that  they  will  do  something  useful ;  that  whatever  may 
be  prepared  for  them  hereafter,  or  happen  to  them  here, 
they  will,  at  least,  deserve  the  food  that  God  gives  them 

^  See  Wordsworth's  poem,  My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold. 


LIFE  AND   ITS   ARTS  309 

by  winning  it  honourably:  and  that,  however  fallen 
from  the  purity,  or  far  from  the  peace,  of  Eden,  they 
will  carry  out  the  duty  of  human  dominion,  though  they 
have  lost  its  felicity ;  and  dress  and  keep  the  wilderness,^ 
though  they  no  more  can  dress  or  keep  the  garden. 

These,  —  hewers  of  wood,  and  drawers  of  water,^  — 
these,  bent  under  burdens,  or  torn  of  scourges — these, 
that  dig  and  weave  —  that  plant  and  build ;  w^orkers 
in  wood,  and  in  marble,  and  in  iron  —  by  whom  all 
food,  clothing,  habitation,  furniture,  and  means  of  de- 
light are  produced,  for  themselves,  and  for  all  men 
beside ;  men,  whose  deeds  are  good, though  their  words 
may  be  few;  men,  whose  lives  are  serviceable,  be  they 
never  so  short,  and  worthy  of  honour,  be  they  never 
so  humble ;  —  from  these,  surely,  at  least,  we  may  re- 
ceive some  clear  message  of  teaching;  and  pierce,  for 
an  instant,  into  the  mystery  of  life,  and  of  its  arts. 

Yes ;  from  these,  at  last,  we  do  receive  a  lesson.  But  I 
grieve  to  say,  or  rather  —  for  that  is  the  deeper  truth 
of  the  matter  —  I  rejoice  to  say  —  this  message  of 
theirs  can  only  be  received  by  joining  them  —  not  by 
thinking  about  them. 

You  sent  for  me  to  talk  to  you  of  art;  and  I  have 

obeyed  you  in  coming.    But  the  main  thing  I  have  to 

tell  you  is,  —  that  art  must  not  be  talked  about.    The 

fact  that  there  is  talk  about  it  at  all,  signifies  that  it 

is  ill  done,  or  cannot  be  done.    No  true  painter  ever 

speaks,  or  ever  has  spoken,  much  of  his  art.    The 

greatest  speak  nothing.  Even  Reynolds  is  no  exception, 

for  he  wrote  of  all  that  he  could  not  himself  do,^  and 

was  utterly  silent  respecting  all  that  he  himself  did. 

*  See  Genesis  ii,  15,  and  the  opening  lines  of  the  first  selection 
in  this  volume. 
^  Joshua  ix,  21. 
3  In  his  Discourses  on  Art.     Cf.  pp.  24  ff.  above. 


310  LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS 

The  moment  a  man  can  really  do  his  work  he  be- 
comes speechless  about  it.  All  words  become  idle  to 
him  —  all  theories. 

Does  a  bird  need  to  theorize  about  building  its  nest, 
or  boast  of  it  when  built?  All  good  work  is  essentially 
done  that  way  —  without  hesitation,  without  difficulty, 
without  boasting;  and  in  the  doers  of  the  best,  there  is 
an  inner  and  involuntary  power  which  approximates 
literally  to  the  instinct  of  an  animal  —  nay,  I  am  certain 
that  in  the  most  perfect  human  artists,  reason  does  not 
supersede  instinct,  but  is  added  to  an  instinct  as  much 
more  divine  than  that  of  the  lower  animals  as  the  hu- 
man body  is  more  beautiful  than  theirs;  that  a  great 
singer  sings  not  with  less  instinct  than  the  nightingale, 
but  with  more  —  only  more  various,  applicable,  and 
governable ;  that  a  great  architect  does  not  build  w^ith 
less  instinct  than  the  beaver  or  the  bee,  but  w^ith  more 
* —  with  an  innate  cunning  of  proportion  that  embraces 
all  beauty,  and  a  divine  ingenuity  of  skill  that  improvises 
all  construction.  But  be  that  as  it  may  —  be  the  instinct 
less  or  more  than  that  of  inferior  animals  - —  like  or  un- 
like theirs,  still  the  human  art  is  dependent  on  that  first, 
and  then  upon  an  amount  of  practice,  of  science,  —  and 
of  imagination  disciplined  by  thought,  which  the  true 
possessor  of  it  knows  to  be  incommunicable,  and  the 
true  critic  of  it,  inexplicable,  except  through  long  pro- 
cess of  laborious  years.  That  journey  of  life's  conquest, 
in  which  hills  over  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arose,  and 
sank,  —  do  you  think  you  can  make  another  trace  it 
painlessly,  by  talking  ?  Why,  you  cannot  even  carry  us 
up  an  Alp,  by  talking.  You  can  guide  us  up  it,  step  by 
step,  no  otherwise  —  even  so,  best  silently.  You  girls, 
who  have  been  among  the  hills,  knew  how  the  bad 
guide  chatters  and  gesticulates,  and  it  is  "  put  your 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  311 

foot  here";  and  "mind  how  you  balance  yourself 
there";  but  the  good  guide  walks  on  quietly,  without 
a  word,  only  with  his  eyes  on  you  when  need  is,  and 
his  arm  like  an  iron  bar,  if  need  be. 

In  that  slow  way,  also,  art  can  be  taught  —  if  you 
have  faith  in  your  guide,  and  will  let  his  arm  be  to  you 
as  an  iron  bar  when  need  is.  But  in  what  teacher  of 
art  have  you  such  faith  ?  Certainly  not  in  me ;  for,  as  I 
told  you  at  first,  I  know  well  enough  it  is  only  because 
you  think  I  can  talk,  not  because  you  think  I  know 
my  business,  that  you  let  me  speak  to  you  at  all.  If  I 
were  to  tell  you  anything  that  seemed  to  you  strange, 
you  would  not  believe  it,  and  yet  it  would  only  be  in 
telling  you  strange  things  that  I  could  be  of  use  to  you. 
I  could  be  of  great  use  to  you  —  infinite  use  —  with 
brief  saying,  if  you  would  believe  it ;  but  you  would  not, 
just  because  the  thing  that  would  be  of  real  use  would 
displease  you.  You  are  all  wild,  for  instance,  with  ad- 
miration of  Gustave  Dore.  Well,  suppose  I  were  to 
tell  you,  in  the  strongest  terms  I  could  use,  that  Gustave 
Dore's  art  was  bad  —  bad,  not  in  weakness,  —  not  in 
failure,  —  but  bad  with  dreadful  power  —  the  power 
of  the  Furies  and  the  Harpies  mingled,  enraging,  and 
polluting ;  that  so  long  as  you  looked  at  it,  no  perception 
of  pure  or  beautiful  art  was  possible  for  you.  Suppose 
I  were  to  tell  you  that !  What  would  be  the  use  ?  Would 
you  look  at  Gustave  Dore  less  ?  Rather,  more,  I  fancy. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  could  soon  put  you  into  good 
humour  with  me,  if  I  chose.  I  know  well  enough 
what  you  like,  and  how  to  pr,aise  it  to  your  better  liking. 
I  could  talk  to  you  aboiitimoonlight,  and  twilight,  and 
spring  flowers,  and  autumn  leaves,  and  the  Madonnas 
of  Raphael  —  how  motherly !  and  the  Sibyls  of  Michael 
Angelo  —  how  majestic !  and  the  Saints  of  Angelico  — • 


312  LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS 

how  pious  !  and  the  Cherubs  of  Correggio  —  how  de- 
licious !  Old  as  I  am,  I  could  play  you  a  tune  on  the 
harp  yet,  that  you  would  dance  to.  But  neither  you 
nor  I  should  be  a  bit  the  better  or  wiser ;  or,  if  we  were, 
our  increased  wisdom  could  be  of  no  practical  effect. 
For,  indeed,  the  arts,  as  regards  teachableness,  differ 
from  the  sciences  also  in  this,  that  their  power  is 
founded  not  merely  on  facts  which  can  be  communi- 
cated, but  on  dispositions  which  require  to  be  created. 
Art  is  neither  to  be  achieved  by  effort  of  thinking,  nor 
explained  by  accuracy  of  speaking.  It  is  the  instinctive 
and  necessary  result  of  power,  which  can  only  be  de- 
veloped through  the  mind  of  successive  generations, 
and  which  finally  burst  into  life  under  social  conditions 
as  slow  of  growth  as  the  faculties  they  regulate,  i  Whole 
aeras  of  mighty  history  are  summed,  and  the  passions 
of  dead  myriads  are  concentrated,  in  the  existence  of  a 
noble  art;  and  if  that  noble  art  were  among  us,  we 
should  feel  it  and  rejoice ;  not  caring  in  the  least  to  hear 
lectures  on  it;  and  since  it  is  not  among  us,  be  assured 
we  have  to  go  back  to  the  root  of  it,  or,  at  least,  to  the 
place  where  the  stock  of  it  is  yet  alive,  and  the  branches 
began  to  die. 

And  now,  may  I  have  your  pardon  for  pointing  out, 
partly  with  reference  to  matters  which  are  at  this  time 
of  greater  moment  than  the  arts  —  that  if  we  under- 
took such  recession  to  the  vital  germ  of  national  arts 
that  have  decayed,  we  should  find  a  more  singular 
arrest  of  their  power  in  Ireland  than  in  any  other  Euro- 
pean country.  For  in  the  eighth  century  Ireland  pos- 
sessed a  school  of  art  in  her  manuscripts  and  sculpture, 
which,  in  many  of  its  qualities  —  apparently  in  all  es- 
ential  qualities  of  decorative  invention  —  was  quite 
without  rival;  seeming  as  if  it  might  have  advanced 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  313 

to  the  highest  triumphs  in  architecture  and  in  painting. 
But  there  was  one  fatal  flaw  in  its  nature,  by  which 
it  was  stayed,  and  stayed  with  a  conspicuousness  of 
pause  to  which  there  is  no  parallel :  so  that,  long  ago, 
in  tracing  the  progress  of  European  schools  from  in- 
fancy to  strength,!  chose  for  the  students  of  Kensington, 
in  a  lecture  since  published,  two  characteristic  examples 
of  early  art,  of  equal  skill;  but  in  the  one  case,  skill 
which  was  progressive  —  in  the  other,  skill  which 
was  at  pause.  In  the  one  case,  it  was  work  receptive 
of  correction  —  hungry  for  correction ;  and  in  the 
other,  work  which  inherently  rejected  correction.  I 
chose  for  them  a  corrigible  Eve,  and  an  incorrigible 
Angel,  and  I  grieve  to  say  ^  that  the  incorrigible  Angel 
was  also  an  Irish  angel! 

And  the  fatal  difference  lay  wholly  in  this.  In  both 
pieces  of  art  there  was  an  equal  falling  short  of  the 
needs  of  fact;  but  the  Lombardic  Eve  knew  she  was  in 
the  wrong,  and  the  Irish  Angel  thought  himself  all  right. 
The  eager  Lombardic  sculptor,  though  firmly  insisting 
on  his  childish  idea,  yet  showed  in  the  irregular  broken 
touches  of  the  features,  and  the  imperfect  struggle  for 
softer  lines  in  the  form,  a  perception  of  beauty  and  law 
that  he  could  not  render ;  there  w^as  the  strain  of  effort, 
under  conscious  imperfection,  in  every  line.  But  the 
Irish  missal-painter  had  drawn  his  angel  with  no  sense 
of  failure,  in  happy  complacency,  and  put  red  dots  into 
the  palms  of  each  hand,  and  rounded  the  eyes  into  per- 
fect circles,  and,  I  regret  to  say,  left  the  mouth  out  alto- 
gether, with  perfect  satisfaction  to  himself. 

May  I  without  offence  ask  you  to  consider  w^hcther 
this  mode  of  arrest  in  ancient  Irish  art  may  not  be  in- 
dicative of  points  of  character  which  even  yet,  in  some 
1  See  The  Two  Paths,  §§  28  ef  seq.   [Ruskin.] 


314  LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS 

nioasiire,  arrest  your  national  power?  I  have  seen 
much  of  Irish  character,  and  have  watched  it  closely, 
for  I  have  also  much  loved  it.  And  I  think  the  form  of 
failure  to  which  it  is  most  liable  is  this,  —  that  being 
generous-hearted,  and  wholly  intending  always  to  do 
right,  it  does  not  attend  to  the  external  laws  of  right, 
but  thinks  it  must  necessarily  do  right  because  it  means 
'to  do  so,  and  therefore  does  wrong  without  finding  it 
out;  and  then,  when  the  consequences  of  its  wrong 
come  upon  it,  or  upon  others  connected  with  it,  it  can- 
not conceive  that  the  wrong  is  in  any  wise  of  its  causing 
or  of  its  doing,  but  flies  into  wrath,  and  a  strange  agony 
of  desire  for  justice,  as  feeling  itself  wholly  innocent, 
which  leads  it  farther  astray,  until  there  is  nothing  that 
it  is  not  capable  of  doing  with  a  good  conscience. 

But  mind,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that,  in  past  or  pre- 
sent relations  between  Ireland  and  England,  you  have 
been  wrong,  and  we  right.  Far  from  that,  I  believe 
that  in  all  great  questions  of  principle,  and  in  all  details 
of  administration  of  law,  you  have  been  usually  right, 
and  we  wrong;  sometimes  in  misunderstanding  you, 
sometimes  in  resolute  iniquity  to  you.  Nevertheless, 
in  all  disputes  between  states,  though  the  strongest  is 
nearly  always  mainly  in  the  wrong,  the  weaker  is  often 
so  in  a  minor  degree;  and  I  think  we  sometimes  admit 
the  possibility  of  our  being  in  error,  and  you  never  do.^ 

And  now,  returning  to  the  broader  question,  what 
these  arts  and  labours  of  life  have  to  teach  us  of  its  mys- 
tery, this  is  the  first  of  their  lessons  —  that  the  more 
beautiful  the  art,  the  more  it  is  essentially  the  work  of 
people  vfhofeel  themselves  wrong  ;  —  w^ho  are  striving 

^  References  mainly  to  the  Irish  Land  Question,  on  which  Rus- 
kin  atrreed  with  Mill  and  Gladstone  in  advocating  the  establish- 
ment of  a  peasant-proprietorship  in  Ireland. 


LIFE   AND    ITS   ARTS  315 

for  the  fulfilment  of  a  law,  and  the  grasp  of  a  loveliness, 
which  they  have  not  yet  attained,  which  they  feel  even 
farther  and  farther  from  attaining  the  more  they  strive 
for  it.  And  yet,  in  still  deeper  sense,  it  is  the  work  of 
people  who  know  also  that  they  are  right.  The  very 
sense  of  inevitable  error  from  their  purpose  marks  the 
perfectness  of  that  purpose,  and  the  continued  sense  of 
failure  arises  from  the  continued  opening  of  the  eyes 
more  clearly  to  all  the  sacredest  laws  of  truth. 

This  is  one  lesson.  The  second  is  a  very  plain,  and 
greatly  precious  one :  namely,  —  that  whenever  the 
arts  and  labours  of  life  are  fulfilled  in  this  spirit  of 
striving  against  misrule,  and  doing  whatever  we  have 
to  do,  honourably  and  perfectly,  they  invariably  bring 
happiness,  as  much  as  seems  possible  to  the  nature 
of  man.  In  all  other  paths  by  which  that  happiness  is 
pursued  there  is  disappointment,  or  destruction :  for 
ambition  and  for  passion  there  is  no  rest  —  no  fruition ; 
the  fairest  pleasures  of  youth  perish  in  a  darkness 
greater  than  their  past  light ;  and  the  loftiest  and  purest 
love  too  often  does  but  inflame  the  cloud  of  life  with 
endless  fire  of  pain.  But,  ascending  from  lowest  to 
highest,  through  every  scale  of  human  industry,  that 
industry  worthily  followed,  gives  peace.  Ask  the  la- 
bourer in  the  field,  at  the  forge,  or  in  the  mine ;  ask  the 
patient,  delicate-fingered  artisan,  or  the  strong-armed, 
fiery-hearted  worker  in  bronze,  and  in  marble,  and  in 
the  colours  of  light;  and  none  of  these,  who  are  true 
workmen,  will  ever  tell  you,  that  they  have  found  the 
law  of  heaven  an  unkind  one  —  that  in  the  sweat  of 
their  face  they  should  eat  bread,  till  they  return  to  the 
ground ;  ^  nor  that  they  ever  found  it  an  unrewarded 
obedience,  if,  indeed,  it  was  rendered  faithfully  to  the 
*  Genesis  iii,  19. 


316  LIFE   AND   ITS   ARTS 

command  —  "  Whatsoever  thy  hand  findeth  to  do  — 
do  it  with  thy  might."  ^ 

These  are  the  two  great  and  constant  lessons  which 
our  labourers  teach  us  of  the  mystery  of  life.  But  there 
is  another,  and  a  sadder  one,  which  they  cannot  teach 
us,  which  we  must  read  on  their  tombstones. 

"  Do  it  with  thy  might."  There  have  been  myriads 
upon  myriads  of  human  creatures  who  have  obeyed 
this  law  —  who  have  put  every  breath  and  nerve  of 
their  being  into  its  toil  —  who  have  devoted  every  hour, 
and  exhausted  every  faculty  —  who  have  bequeathed 
their  unaccomplished  thoughts  at  death  —  who,  being 
dead,  have  yet  spoken,^  by  majesty  of  memory,  and 
strength  of  example.  And,  at  last,  what  has  all  this 
"Might"  of  humanity  accomplished,  in  six  thousand 
years  of  labour  and  sorrow  ?  What  has  it  done  ?  Take 
the  three  chief  occupations  and  arts  of  men,  one  by  one, 
and  count  their  achievements.  Begin  with  the  first  — • 
the  lord  of  them  all  —  Agriculture.  Six  thousand  years 
have  passed  since  we  were  sent  to  till  the  ground,  from 
which  we  were  taken.  How  much  of  it  is  tilled  .^  How 
much  of  that  which  is,  wisely  or  well.'^  In  the  very 
centre  and  chief  garden  of  Europe  —  where  the  two 
forms  of  parent  Christianity  have  had  their  fortresses 

—  where  the  noble  Catholics  of  the  Forest  Cantons, 
and  the  noble  Protestants  of  the  Vaudois  valleys,  have 
maintained,  for  dateless  ages,  their  faiths  and  liberties 

—  there  the  unchecked  Alpine  rivers  yet  run  wild  in 
devastation ;  and  the  marshes,  which  a  few  hundred 
men  could  redeem  with  a  year's  labour,  still  blast 
their  helpless  inhabitants  into  fevered  idiotism.  That 
is  so,  in  the  centre  of  Europe !  While,  on  the  near  coast 
of  Africa,  once  the  Garden  of  the  Hesperides,  an  Arab 

^  Ecdesiastes  ix,  10.  ^  Hebrews  xi,  4. 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  31T 

woman,  but  a  few  sunsets  since,  ate  her  child,  for  fam- 
ine. And,  with  all  the  treasures  of  the  East  at  our  feet, 
we,  in  our  own  dominion,  could  not  find  a  few  grains 
of  rice,  for  a  people  that  asked  of  us  no  more ;  but  stood 
by,  and  saw  five  hundred  thousand  of  them  perish  of 
hunger.^ 

Then,  after  agriculture,  the  art  of  kings,  take  the 
next  head  of  human  arts  —  weaving ;  the  art  of  queens, 
honoured  of  all  noble  Heathen  women,  in  the  person  of 
their  virgin  goddess  ^  —  honoured  of  all  Hebrew  wo- 
men, by  the  word  of  their  wisest  king  —  "  She  layeth 
her  hands  to  the  spindle,  and  her  hands  hold  the  dis- 
taff; she  stretcheth  out  her  hand  to  the  poor.  She  is  not 
afraid  of  the  snow  for  her  household,  for  all  her  house- 
hold are  clothed  with  scarlet.  She  maketh  herself  cover- 
ing of  tapestry;  her  clothing  is  silk  and  purple.  She 
maketh  fine  linen,  and  selleth  it,  and  delivereth  girdles 
unto  the  merchant."  ^  What  have  we  done  in  all  these 
thousands  of  years  with  this  bright  art  of  Greek  maid 
and  Christian  matron  ?  Six  thousand  years  of  weaving, 
and  have  we  learned  to  weave  ?  Might  not  every  naked 
wall  have  been  purple  with  tapestry,  and  every  feeble 
breast  fenced  with  sweet  colours  from  the  cold  ?  What 
have  we  done  ?  Our  fingers  are  too  few,  it  seems,  to 
twist  together  some  poor  covering  for  our  bodies.  We 
set  our  streams  to  work  for  us,  and  choke  the  air  with 
fire,  to  turn  our  spinning-wheels  —  and,  —  are  ice  yet 
clothed?  Are  not  the  streets  of  the  capitals  of  Europe 
foul  with  the  sale  of  cast  clouts  and  rotten  rags  ?  *  Is  not 
the  beauty  of  your  sweet  children  left  in  wretchedness 
of  disgrace,  while,  with  better  honour,  nature  clothes 

^  During  the  famine  in  the  Indian  province  of  Orissa. 
-  Athena,  goddess  of  weaving. 
3  Proverbs  \\y:\,  19-22,  24. 
*  Jeremiah  xxxviii,  11. 


318  LIFE   AND   ITS   ARTS 

the  brood  of  the  bird  in  its  nest,  and  the  suckh'ng  of  the 
woh'  in  her  den  ?  And  doos  not  every  winter's  snow 
robe  what  you  have  not  robed,  and  shroud  what  you 
have  not  shrouded  ;  and  every  winter's  wind  bear  up  to 
lieaven  its  wasted  souls,  to  witness  against  you  here- 
after, by  the  voice  of  their  Christ,  —  "I  was  naked, 
and  ye  clothed  me  not"?  ^ 

Lastly  —  take  the  Art  of  Building  —  the  strongest 
—  proudest  —  most  orderly  —  most  enduring  of  the 
arts  of  man ;  that  of  which  the  produce  is  in  the  surest 
manner  accumulative,  and  need  not  perish,  or  be  re- 
placed ;  but  if  once  well  done,  will  stand  more  strongly 
than  the  unbalanced  rocks  —  more  prevalently  than 
the  crumbling  hills.  The  art  which  is  associated  with 
all  civic  pride  and  sacred  principle;  with  which  men 
record  their  power  —  satisfy  their  enthusiasm  —  make 
sure  their  defence  —  define  and  make  dear  their  habi- 
tation. And  in  six  thousand  years  of  building,  what 
have  we  done  ?  Of  the  greater  part  of  all  that  skill  and 
strength,  no  vestige  is  left,  but  fallen  stones,  that  en- 
cumber the  fields  and  impede  the  streams.  But,  from 
this  waste  of  disorder,  and  of  time,  and  of  rage,  what 
is  left  to  us.^  Constructive  and  progressive  creatures 
that  we  are,  with  ruling  brains,  and  forming  hands, 
capable  of  fellowship,  and  thirsting  for  fame,  can  we 
not  contend,  in  comfort,  w^ith  the  insects  of  the  forest, 
or,  in  achievement,  with  the  worm  of  the  sea?  The 
white  surf  rages  in  vain  against  the  ramparts  built  by 
poor  atoms  of  scarcely  nascent  life;  but  only  ridges  of 
formless  ruin  mark  the  places  where  once  dwelt  our 
noblest  multitudes.  The  ant  and  the  moth  have  cells 
for  each  of  their  young,  but  our  little  ones  lie  in  fester- 
ing heaps,  in  homes  that  consume  them  like  graves; 
*  Matthew  xxv,  43. 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  319 

and  night  by  night,  from  the  corners  of  our  streets, 
rises  up  the  cry  of  the  homeless  —  "I  was  a  stranger, 
and  ye  took  me  not  in."  ^ 

Must  it  be  always  thus?  Is  our  life  for  ever  to 
be  without  profit  —  without  possession  ?  Shall  the 
strength  of  its  generations  be  as  barren  as  death ;  or  cast 
away  their  labour,  as  the  wild  fig-tree  casts  her  un- 
timely figs  ?  ^  Is  it  all  a  dream  then  —  the  desire  of  the 
eyes  and  the  pride  of  life  —  or,  if  it  be,  might  we  not 
live  in  nobler  dream  than  this?  The  poets  and  pro- 
phets, the  wise  men,  and  the  scribes,  though  they  have 
told  us  nothing  about  a  life  to  come,  have  told  us  much 
about  the  life  that  is  now.  They  have  had  —  they  also, 
—  their  dreams,  and  we  have  laughed  at  them.  They 
have  dreamed  of  mercy,  and  of  justice;  they  have 
dreamed  of  peace  and  good-will;  they  have  dreamed 
of  labour  undisappointed,  and  of  rest  undisturbed; 
they  have  dreamed  of  fulness  in  harvest,  and  overflow- 
ing in  store;  they  have  dreamed  of  wisdom  in  council, 
and  of  providence  in  law;  of  gladness  of  parents,  and 
strength  of  children,  and  glory  of  grey  hairs.  And  at 
these  visions  of  theirs  we  have  mocked,  and  held  them 
for  idle  and  vain,  unreal  and  unaccomplishable.  What 
have  we  accomplished  with  our  realities  ?  Is  this  what 
has  come  of  our  worldly  wisdom,  tried  against  their 
folly?  this,  our  mightiest  possible,  against  their  im- 
potent ideal  ?  or,  have  we  only  wandered  among  the 
spectra  of  a  baser  felicity,  and  chased  phantoms  of  the 
tombs,  instead  of  visions  of  the  Almighty;  and  walked 
after  the  imaginations  of  our  evil  hearts,^  instead  of 
after  the  counsels  of  Eternity,  until  our  lives  —  not  in 
the  likeness  of  the  cloud  of  heaven,  but  of  the  smoke  of 

*  Mattheiv  xxv,  43.  *  Revelation  vi,  13. 

3  Jeremiah  xi,  8. 


320  LIFE   AND   ITS   ARTS 

hell  —  have  become  "  as  a  vapour,  that  appeareth  for 
a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away  "  ?  ^ 

Does  it  vanish  then  ?  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  —  sure, 
that  the  nothingness  of  the  grave  will  be  a  rest  from 
this  troubled  nothingness;  and  that  the  coiling  shadowy 
which  disquiets  itself  in  vain,  cannot  change  into  the 
smoke  of  the  torment  that  ascends  for  ever?  ^  Will 
any  answer  that  they  are  sure  of  it,  and  that  there  is  no 
fear,  nor  hope,  nor  desire,  nor  labour,  whither  they  go  ?  ^ 
Be  it  so:  will  you  not,  then,  make  as  sure  of  the  Life 
that  now  is,  as  you  are  of  the  Death  that  is  to  come  ? 
Your  hearts  are  wholly  in  this  world  —  will  you  not 
give  them  to  it  wisely,  as  well  as  perfectly  ?  And  see, 
first  of  all,  that  you  have  hearts,  and  sound  hearts,  too, 
to  give.  Because  you  have  no  heaven  to  look  for,  is  that 
any  reason  that  you  should  remain  ignorant  of  this  won- 
derful and  infinite  earth,  which  is  firmly  and  instantly 
given  you  in  possession  ?  Although  your  days  are  num- 
bered, and  the  following  darkness  sure,  is  it  necessary 
that  you  should  share  the  degradation  of  the  brute, 
because  you  are  condemned  to  its  mortality;  or  live 
the  life  of  the  moth,  and  of  the  worm,  because  you  are 
to  companion  them  in  the  dust  ?  Not  so ;  we  may  have 
but  a  few  thousands  of  days  to  spend,  perhaps  hundreds 
only  — perhaps  tens ;  nay,  the  longest  of  our  time  and 
best,  looked  back  on,  will  be  but  as  a  moment,  as  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye;  still  we  are  men,  not  insects;  we 
are  living  spirits,  not  passing  clouds.  "  He  maketh  the 
winds  His  messengers;  the  momentary  fire,  His  minis- 
ter " ;  ^  and  shall  we  do  less  than  these  ?  Let  us  do  the 
work  of  men  while  we  bear  the  form  of  them ;  and,  as 

*  James  iv,  14. 

'  Psalms  xxxix,  6  and  Revelation  xiv,  11, 
3  Ecdesiastes  ix,  10. 

*  Psalms  civ,  4. 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  321 

we  snatch  our  narrow  portion  of  time  out  of  Eternity, 
snatch  also  our  narrow  inheritance  of  passion  out  of 
Immortality  —  even  though  our  lives  be  as  a  vapour, 
that  appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth 
away. 

But  there  are  some  of  you  who  believe  not  this  — 
who  think  this  cloud  of  life  has  no  such  close  —  that 
it  is  to  float,  revealed  and  illumined,  upon  the  floor  of 
heaven,  in  the  day  when  He  cometh  with  clouds,  and 
every  eye  shall  see  Him.^  Some  day,  you  believe,  within 
these  five,  or  ten,  or  twenty  years,  for  every  one  of  us 
the  judgment  will  be  set,  and  the  books  opened.^  If 
that  be  true,  far  more  than  that  must  be  true.  Is  there 
but  one  day  of  judgment  ?  Why,  for  us  every  day  is  a  day 
of  judgment  —  every  day  is  a  Dies  Irse,^  and  writes 
its  irrevocable  verdict  in  the  flame  of  its  West.  Think 
you  that  judgment  waits  till  the  doors  of  the  grave  are 
opened  ?  It  waits  at  the  doors  of  your  houses  —  it  waits 
at  the  corners  of  your  streets;  we  are  in  the  midst  of 
judgment  —  the  insects  that  we  crush  are  our  judges  — 
the  moments  that  we  fret  away  are  our  judges  —  the 
elements  that  feed  us,  judge,  as  they  minister  —  and 
the  pleasures  that  deceive  us,  judge  as  they  indulge. 
Let  us,  for  our  lives,  do  the  work  of  Men  while  we  bear 
the  form  of  them,  if  indeed  those  lives  are  Not  as  a 
vapour,  and  do  Not  vanish  away. 

"  The  work  of  men  "  —  and  what  is  that  ?  Well,  we 
may  any  of  us  know  very  quickly,  on  tlie  condition  of 

'  Revelaiion  i,  7.  ^  Daniel  vii,  10. 

3  Dies  Ires,  the  name  generally  given  (from  the  opening  words) 
to  the  most  famous  of  the  medieval  hymns,  usually  ascribed  to 
the  Franciscan  Thomas  of  Celano  (died  c.  1255).  It  is  composed  in 
triplets  of  rhyming  trochaic  tetrameters,  and  describes  the  Last  Judg- 
ment in  language  of  magnificent  grandeur,  passing  into  a  plain- 
tive plea  for  the  souls  of  the  dead. 


822  LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS 

being  wholly  ready  to  do  it.  But  many  of  us  are  for  the 
most  part  thinking,  not  of  what  we  are  to  do,  but  of 
what  we  are.to  get ;  and  the  best  of  us  are  sunk  into  the 
sin  of  Ananias,^  and  it  is  a  mortal  one  —  we  want  to 
keep  back  part  of  the  price;  and  we  continually  talk 
of  taking  up  our  cross,  as  if  the  only  harm  in  a  cross 
was  the  iceight  of  it  —  as  if  it  was  only  a  thing  to  be 
carried,  instead  of  to  be  —  crucified  upon.  "  They  that 
are  His  have  crucified  the  flesh,  with  the  affections  and 
lusts."  ^  Does  that  mean,  think  you,  that  in  time  of 
national  distress,  of  religious  trial,  of  crisis  for  every 
interest  and  hope  of  humanity  —  none  of  us  will  cease 
jesting,  none  cease  idling,  none  put  themselves  to  any 
wholesome  work,  none  take  so  much  as  a  tag  of  lace 
off  their  footmen's  coats,  to  save  the  world  ?  Or  does  it 
rather  mean,  that  they  are  ready  to  leave  houses,  lands, 
and  kindreds  —  yes,  and  life,  if  need  be?  Life! — ■ 
some  of  us  are  ready  enough  to  throw  that  away,  joy- 
less as  w^e  have  made  it.  But  "  station  in  Life  "  —  how 
many  of  us  are  ready  to  quit  that  ?  Is  it  not  always  the 
great  objection,  where  there  is  question  of  finding 
something  useful  to  do  —  "  We  cannot  leave  our  sta- 
tions in  Life  "  ? 

Those  of  us  who  really  cannot  —  that  is  to  say,  who 
can  only  maintain  themselves  by  continuing  in  some 
business  or  salaried  office,  have  already  something  to 
do;  and  all  that  they  have  to  see  to  is,  that  they  do  it 
honestly  and  with  all  their  might.  But  with  most  people 
who  use  that  apology,  "remaining  in  the  station  of  life 
to  which  Providence  has  called  them  "  means  keeping 
all  the  carriages,  and  all  the  footmen  and  large  houses 
they  can  possibly  pay  for;  and,  once  for  all,  I  say  that 
if  ever  Providence  did  put  them  into  stations  of  that 
'  Acts  V,  1,  2.  2  GcUaiians  v.  24. 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  323 

sort  —  which  is  not  at  all  a  matter  of  certainty  —  Pro- 
vidence is  just  now  very  distinctly  calling  them  out 
again.  Levi's  station  in  life  was  the  receipt  of  custom ; 
and  Peter's,  the  shore  of  Galilee;  and  Paul's,  the  ante- 
chambers of  the  High  Priest,  —  which  "  station  in 
life"  each  had  to  leave,  with  brief  notice. 

And,  whatever  our  station  in  life  may  be,  at  this 
crisis,  those  of  us  who  mean  to  fulfil  our  duty  ought  first 
to  live  on  as  little  as  we  can;  and,  secondly,  to  do  al! 
the  wholesome  work  for  it  we  can,  and  to  spend  all  we 
can  spare  in  doing  all  the  sure  good  we  can. 

And  sure  good  is,  first  in  feeding  people,  then  in 
dressing  people,  then  in  lodging  people,  and  lastly  in 
rightly  pleasing  people,  with  arts,  or  sciences,  or  any 
other  subject  of  thought. 

I  say  first  in  feeding;  and,  once  for  all,  do  not  let 
yourselves  be  deceived  by  any  of  the  common  talk  of 
"indiscriminate  charity."  The  order  to  us  is  not  to 
feed  the  deserving  hungry,  nor  the  industrious  hungry, 
nor  the  amiable  and  well-intentioned  hungry,  but  sim- 
ply to  feed  the  hungry.^  It  is  quite  true,  infallibly  true, 
that  if  any  man  will  not  work,  neither  should  he  eat  ^  — - 
think  of  that,  and  every  time  you  sit  down  to  your  din- 
ner, ladies  and  gentlemen,  say  solemnly,  before  you  ask 
a  blessing,  "How  much  work  have  I  done  to-day  for 
my  dinner  ?  "  But  the  proper  way  to  enforce  that  order 
on  those  below  you,  as  well  as  on  yourselves,  is  not  to 
leave  vagabonds  and  honest  people  to  starve  together, 
but  very  distinctly  to  discern  and  seize  your  vagabond ; 
'jnd  shut  your  vagabond  up  out  of  honest  people's  way, 
,nd  very  sternly  then  see  that,  until  he  has  worked,  he 
does  not  eat.  But  the  first  thing  is  to  be  sure  you  have 
the  food  to  give ;  and,  therefore,  to  enforce  the  organiza- 
*  Isaiah  Iviii,  7.  *  2  Thessalonians  iii,  10. 


324  LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS 

tion  of  vast  activities  in  agriculture  and  in  commerce, 
for  the  production  of  the  wholcsomest  food,  and  pro- 
per storing  and  distribution  of  it,  so  that  no  famine 
shall  any  more  be  possible  among  civilized  beings 
There  is  plenty  of  work  in  this  business  alone,  ana 
at  once,  for  any  number  of  people  who  like  to  engage 
in  it. 

Secondly,  dressing  people  —  that  is  to  say,  urging 
every  one  within  reach  of  your  influence  to  be  always 
neat  and  clean,  and  giving  them  means  of  being  so.  In 
so  far  as  they  absolutely  refuse,  you  must  give  up  the 
effort  with  respect  to  them,  only  taking  care  that  no 
children  within  your  sphere  of  influence  shall  any  more 
be  brought  up  with  such  habits ;  and  that  every  person 
who  is  willing  to  dress  with  propriety  shall  have  encour- 
agement to  do  so.  And  the  first  absolutely  necessary  step 
towards  this  is  the  gradual  adoption  of  a  consistent  dress 
for  different  ranks  of  persons,  so  that  their  rank  shall  be 
known  by  their  dress ;  and  the  restriction  of  the  changes 
of  fashion  within  certain  limits.  All  which  appears 
for  the  present  quite  impossible ;  but  it  is  only  so  far 
even  difficult  as  it  is  difficult  to  conquer  our  vanity, 
frivolity,  and  desire  to  appear  w^hat  we  are  not.  And  it 
is  not,  nor  ever  shall  be,  creed  of  mine,  that  these  mean 
and  shallow  vices  are  unconquerable  by  Christian 
women. 

And  then,  thirdly,  lodging  people,  which  you  may 
think  should  have  been  put  first,  but  I  put  it  third, 
because  we  must  feed  and  clothe  people  where  we  find 
them,  and  lodge  them  afterwards.  And  providing  lodg- 
ment for  them  means  a  great  deal  of  vigorous  legisla- 
tion, and  cutting  down  of  vested  interests  that  stand  in 
the  way,  and  after  that,  or  before  that,  so  far  as  we  can 
get  it,  thorough  sanitary  and  remedial  action  in  the 


LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS  325 

houses  that  we  have;  and  then  the  building  of  more, 
strongly,  beautifully,  and  in  groups  of  limited  extent, 
kept  in  proportion  to  their  streams,  and  walled  round, 
so  that  there  may  be  no  festering  and  wretched  suburb 
anywhere,  but  clean  and  busy  street  within,  and  the 
open  country  without,  with  a  belt  of  beautiful  garden 
and  orchard  round  the  walls,  so  that  from  any  part  of 
the  city  perfectly  fresh  air  and  grass,  and  the  sight  of 
far  horizon,  might  be  reachable  in  a  few  minutes'  walk. 
This  is  the  final  aim ;  but  in  immediate  action  every 
minor  and  possible  good  to  be  instantly  done,  when, 
and  as,  we  can ;  roofs  mended  that  have  holes  in  them 
—  fences  patched  that  have  gaps  in  them  —  walls  but- 
tressed that  totter  —  and  floors  propped  that  shake ; 
cleanliness  and  order  enforced  with  our  own  hands  and 
eyes,  till  we  are  breathless,  every  day.  And  all  the  fine 
arts  will  healthily  follow.  I  myself  have  washed  a  flight 
of  stone  stairs  all  down,  with  bucket  and  broom,  in  a 
Savoy  inn,  where  they  had  n't  washed  their  stairs  since 
they  first  went  up  them;  and  I  never  made  a  better 
sketch  than  that  afternoon. 

These,  then,  are  the  three  first  needs  of  civilized  life; 
and  the  law  for  every  Christian  man  and  woman  is, 
that  they  shall  be  in  direct  service  towards  one  of  these 
three  needs,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  their  own  special 
occupation,  and  if  they  have  no  special  business,  then 
wholly  in  one  of  these  services.  And  out  of  such  exertion 
in  plain  duty  all  other  good  will  come ;  for  in  this  direct 
contention  with  material  evil,  you  will  find  out  the  real 
nature  of  all  evil ;  you  will  discern  by  the  various  kinds 
of  resistance,  what  is  really  the  fault  and  main  antago- 
nism to  good ;  also  you  will  find  the  most  unexpected 
helps  and  profound  lessons  given,  and  truths  will  come 
thus  down  to  us  which  the  speculation  of  all  our  lives 


S26  LIFE   AND   ITS  ARTS 

would  never  have  raised  us  up  to.  You  will  find  nearly 
every  educational  problem  solved,  as  soon  as  you  truly 
want  to  do  something;  everybody  will  become  of  use 
in  their  own  fittest  way,  and  will  learn  what  is  best  for 
them  to  know  in  that  use.  Competitive  examination 
will  then,  and  not  till  then,  be  wholesome,  because  it 
will  be  daily,  and  calm,  and  in  practice;  and  on  these 
familiar  arts,  and  minute,  but  certain  and  serviceable 
knowledges,  will  be  surely  edified  and  sustained  the 
greater  arts  and  splendid  theoretical  sciences. 

But  much  more  than  this.  On  such  holy  and  simple 
practice  will  be  founded,  indeed,  at  last,  an  infallible 
religion.  The  greatest  of  all  the  mysteries  of  life,  and 
the  most  terrible,  is  the  corruption  of  even  the  sincerest 
religion,  which  is  not  daily  founded  on  rational,  effec- 
tive, humble,  and  helpful  action.  Helpful  action,  ob- 
serve! for  there  is  just  one  law,  which  obeyed,  keeps 
all  religions  pure  —  forgotten,  makes  them  all  false. 
Whenever  in  any  religious  faith,  dark  or  bright,  we 
allow  our  minds  to  dwell  upon  the  points  in  which  we 
differ  from  other  people,  we  are  wrong,  and  in  the 
devil's  power.  That  is  the  essence  of  the  Pharisee's 
thanksgiving  —  "  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  that  I  am  not  as 
other  men  are."  ^  At  every  moment  of  our  lives  we 
should  be  trying  to  find  out,  not  in  what  we  differ  with 
other  people,  but  in  what  we  agree  with  them;  and  the 
moment  we  find  we  can  agree  as  to  anything  that  should 
be  done,  kind  or  good,  (a.nd  who  but  fools  could  n't  ?) 
then  do  it ;  push  at  it  together :  you  can't  quarrel  in  a 
side-by-slde  push ;  but  the  moment  that  even  the  best 
men  stop  pushing,  and  begin  talking,  they  mistake 
their  pugnacity  for  piety,  and  it's  all  over.  I  will  not 
speak  of  the  crimes  which  in  past  times  have  been  com- 
*  Luke  xviii,  11. 


LIFE  AND  ITS  ARTS  327 

mitted  in  the  name  of  Christ,  nor  of  the  follies  which  are 
at  this  hour  held  to  be  consistent  with  obedience  to 
Him ;  but  I  will  speak  of  the  morbid  corruption  and 
waste  of  vital  power  in  religious  sentiment,  by  which 
the  pure  strength  of  that  which  should  be  the  guiding 
soul  of  every  nation,  the  splendour  of  its  youthful  man- 
hood, and  spotless  light  of  its  maidenhood,  is  averted  or 
cast  away.  You  may  see  continually  girls  who  have 
never  been  taught  to  do  a  single  useful  thing  thor- 
oughly ;  who  cannot  sew,  who  cannot  cook,  who  cannot 
cast  an  account,  nor  prepare  a  medicine,  whose  whole 
life  has  been  passed  either  in  play  or  in  pride;  you  will 
find  girls  like  these,  when  they  are  earnest-hearted,  cast 
all  their  innate  passion  of  religious  spirit,  which  was 
meant  by  God  to  support  them  through  the  irksome- 
ness  of  daily  toil,  into  grievous  and  vain  meditation 
over  the  meaning  of  the  great  Book,  of  which  no  syl- 
lable was  ever  yet  to  be  understood  but  through  a  deed ; 
all  the  instinctive  wisdom  and  mercy  of  their  woman- 
hood made  vain,  and  the  glory  of  their  pure  con- 
sciences warped  into  fruitless  agony  concerning  ques- 
tions which  the  laws  of  common  serviceable  life  would 
have  either  solved  for  them  in  an  instant,  or  kept  out 
of  their  way.  Give  such  a  girl  any  true  work  that  will 
make  her  active  in  the  dawn,  and  weary  at  night,  with 
the  consciousness  that  her  fellow-creatures  have  in- 
deed been  the  better  for  her  day,  and  the  powerless 
sorrow  of  her  enthusiasm  will  transform  itself  into  a 
majesty  of  radiant  and  beneficent  peace. 

So  wnth  our  youths.    We  once  taught  them  to  make 

Latin  verses,  and  called  them  educated  ;  now  we  teach 

hem  to  leap  and  to  row,  to  hit  a  ball  with  a  bat,  and 

jail  them  educated.    Can  they  plough,  can  they  sow, 

can  they  plant  at  the  right  time,  or  build  with  a  steady 


S28  LIFE  AND   ITS  ARTS 

hand  ?  Is  it  the  effort  of  their  lives  to  be  chaste, 
knightly,  faithful,  holy  in  thought,  lovely  in  word  and 
deed  ?  Indeed  it  is,  with  some,  nay  with  many,  and 
the  strength  of  England  is  in  them,  and  the  hope;  but 
we  have  to  turn  their  courage  from  the  toil  of  war  to  the 
toil  of  mercy ;  and  their  intellect  from  dispute  of  words 
to  discernment  of  things;  and  their  knighthood  from 
the  errantry  of  adventure  to  the  state  and  fidelity  of 
a  kingly  power.  And  then,  indeed,  shall  abide,  for 
them,  and  for  us,  an  incorruptible  felicity,  and  an  in- 
fallible religion ;  shall  abide  for  us  Faith,  no  more  to  be 
assailed  by  temptation,  no  more  to  be  defended  by 
wrath  and  by  fear;  —  shall  abide  with  us  Hope,  no 
more  to  be  quenched  by  the  years  that  overwhelm,  or 
made  ashamed  by  the  shadows  that  betray :  —  shall 
abide  for  us,  and  with  us,  the  greatest  of  these;  the 
abiding  will,  the  abiding  name  of  our  Father.  For  the 
greatest  of  these  is  Charity.^ 

^  1  Corinthians  xiii,  13. 


'WmfF'-: 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Editions.  The  standard  edition  of  Ruskin  is  that  of  Cook 
and  Wedderburn  in  34  volumes.  Most  of  his  better- 
known  works  may  be  had  in  cheap  and  convenient 
forms. 

The  best  lives  are : 

CoLLiNGwooD,  W.  G.  The  Life  and  Work  of  John  Ruskin. 

Houghton   Mifflin    Company,     1893.     (2    vols.)     The 

standard  biography. 
Harrison,   F.     John   Ruskin    (English   Men   of   Letters). 

The  Macmillan  Company,  1902.  A  short  and  readable 

biography. 


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